Ambivalence: Sequel to Captive
by Miss Snuffles
Summary: Two years after the events in 'Captive,' Ginny is trying to figure out her life and come to terms with her 'betrayal.'
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: JKR does the hard work and reaps the rewards.

A/N: Yes, I am still alive! For the past year I've been working on this sequel to Captive (if you haven't read it, you better, because otherwise you won't know what's going on), working and going to school, and generally having large arguments with Harry and Ginny, who thought they deserved one big smutfest. They tend to get sulky when I explain about character development, plot, and other such nonsense things.

Anyway, I have some misgivings about this fic, but my lovely beta-reader, Cliodne, says it's fine (after she's tweaked it, of course), and I shouldn't be so worried. It's up to you to tell me what you think.

I have several chapters written (13 is in beta), but I won't be posting them all at once, simply because I don't want to run out before it's finished. So, without further ado, I give you the sequel to Captive, which I named Ambivalence and am still looking for a better title. (I'm open to any suggestions!)

AMBIVALENCE: Sequel to Captive

Prologue

Wan morning sunlight drifted through the high-arching window, making the white linen privacy curtains and crisp sheets glow softly as Ginny Weasley, bent down, slowly tied her laces. Beyond the surreal, contained world of white, she could hear the rustling of Madam Pomfrey preparing the infirmary for the usual routine of bewildered, magically mishap-afflicted students that would wander through in an hour.

"Are you about done, Miss Weasley?" the matron called, her feet rapping on the hard floor as she bustled past the curtain, her shadow carrying bundles of linen.

Ginny opened her mouth to answer, flinched, and cleared her throat. "In a moment, Madam," she croaked, her voice barely carrying.

"You're not staying in here another day, mark my words!"

Only weeks ago, the irony of the situation would have made Ginny laugh. Everyone knew that nothing pleased Madam Pomfrey more than having a long-term invalid amongst the usual stop-bys, and now that she'd had Ginny for two weeks, the nurse was kicking her out the door.

Ginny gave a weary sigh and rubbed at her eyes. They felt itchy; she didn't like to think what that meant.

__

At least I'm not shaking, she thought glumly, turning her palms up and then turning them over before her. She had gotten the trembling under control last week, but it still crept up on her every now and then. Despite her impressive restraint the last few day, Ginny had little doubt that it would be all for naught today.

Not for the first time this November, Ginny wished she were as invisible as she had been during her first and second years. It had been easier to "recover" from the Chamber of Secrets when hardly anyone actually _knew_ her or took time away from themselves to realize she had been affected. No, this time she would have to be very careful.

And she did not know how she could possibly pull it off.

"Miss Weasley!"

"I'm going." Her throat did not have the capacity to snap. Ginny shook herself but did not bother to set her shoulders as she picked up her school bag (full of today's books that Hermione had brought her last night), and took a deep breath before pushing aside the privacy curtain.

"Well, you've nearly missed breakfast," said Madam Pomfrey, hands on her hips. "You'll suffer more weariness if you don't eat properly."

Ginny nodded and let her eyes slide away from the matron. The double, arched doors were open, ready to welcome unfortunate students. With nothing for it with Madam Pomfrey standing there, glaring meaningfully, Ginny dragged herself through the archway and into the corridor.

The trembling began deep in her chest. A few ambitious Ravenclaws were coming down the corridor, eager to arrive early and prepare for class. One of them, a prefect whose name Ginny could not process through the throbbing that had traveled from her chest to her ears, raised her eyebrows at Ginny and broke away from the group.

"Ah, Ginny Weasley!" she said, sounding unnervingly like Percy. "Back to classes today, I see."

Her eyes, Ginny noticed, were a sharp, appraising brown. Behind her, the other Ravenclaws began to whisper, but the prefect did not seem to notice. Instead, she arched an eyebrow expectantly, and Ginny realized she was supposed to answer. She gave a curt nod.

"Good, good," the Ravenclaw said. "You would not want to fall behind your classes."

"No." _Classes are definitely foremost in my mind_. As the Ravenclaws strode away, Ginny shook her head. Percy had "consoled" her the summer after her first year with "at least the basilisk took you at the end of the term, so you did not miss any revision time or your exams." Perhaps it was just a way to look at the silver lining . . .

As she slowly trudged away from the infirmary, Ginny considered bypassing the Great Hall altogether and going straight to her Transfiguration class. Or better yet, her dormitory. The only thing stopping her was Hermione and Ron; she'd promised them she would be at breakfast.

She did not, however, promise Harry. She had not seen him in a week.

The trembling started to pinch her bones. Ginny bit her lip and swallowed hard as another group of students, mostly Hufflepuffs, passed her on a staircase, trying to inconspicuously stare. She was nearly to the Great Hall and only ten minutes of breakfast remained.

__

Maybe they gave up by now and left, she thought hopefully as she came down the last stair before the Great Hall. Colin Creevey and Hannah Abbott were talking avidly by the great, open doors, and like a ghost, Ginny drifted past them. She gritted her teeth to keep the ache from expanding to her muscles.

The Great Hall, nearly empty now except for small groups of stragglers, seemed gray and pale under the bleak November sky. The entire month had been one bloody metaphor for her.

Her fingers twitched at her sides and Ginny steeled herself as she gazed around the enormous room. The urge to flee nearly overwhelmed her as she set eyes on the Slytherin table. Shrewd, cold eyes glared at her. Almost sadly, Ginny felt the absence of Draco Malfoy's haughty, malicious gaze.

Reluctantly, Ginny looked toward the Gryffindor table, and deeply wished she hadn't. Among the usual stragglers casting her sympathetic, curious looks were Ron, Hermione, and Harry. She quickly looked to the floor, not wanting to interpret their expressions or meet any eyes. _I'll have to be able to look at them, before they start asking questions_, she told herself sternly. _And if they start asking questions, I'll break down and everything will come out, and then I might as well be dead._

She wished Voldemort _had_ killed her. Or Lucius or Draco . . . Her death would had solved quite a bit and been a blow to the dark forces.

But no, she was still alive, and still a danger.

__

I can't go in there, I can't, her mind screamed, but her feet knew that everyone was staring and that the plan must go through. All too soon, Ginny was sitting beside Hermione and setting her bag on the floor.

"Ginny!" Hermione said, breathless with happiness and concern.

"We didn't think you'd come," said Ron, finishing the last of his orange juice. Ginny felt heat prick her eyes at his casual, easy comment that she knew hid his intense concern. "'Bout to bring breakfast up to the infirmary." Sitting on the other side of Hermione, he scooped up some still-warm scrambled eggs with melted cheese and dumped them on the plate before her. "Eat up. Mum's sent me _three_ letters this morning telling me to make sure you eat."

Despite herself, Ginny shot him an annoyed look. Ron merely shrugged good-naturedly. "Don't give me that look. I'm just doing my part so I don't get a Howler in Transfiguration or something."

If her face muscles could remember how to do it, Ginny would have smiled at him. Instead she shrugged and used her fork to push at the yellow and orange mound. She tried to breathe silently and steadily, but the silent, still presence across from her aggravated the shuddering of her marrow. Could she even last the remaining five minutes of breakfast?

"Glad to be out of the infirmary?" asked Hermione delicately on Ginny's right.

"Sure." If her blood had not been so cold, she would have blushed. As far as anyone but Madam Pomfrey and Dumbledore knew, Ginny had been incarcerated against her will for the past two weeks.

"You know, I didn't mind it at first," Hermione went on, obviously determined to keep a conversation going. "It was horrid to be away from classes, but really, it was quite peaceful in the evenings for homework."

Ginny shrugged. She hadn't touched her books. But that was going to change now. She had a feeling that she would find any excuse to do academics rather than play games or chat with her friends in the common room.

"You are the oddest girl, I swear," Ron muttered. Ginny heard him drop a kiss on Hermione's cheek and stopped her eyes just before they inadvertently flicked toward Harry.

"Oh, Ginny," Hermione sighed after a moment. "Aren't you going to eat anything?"

"I'm not really hungry. I had some fruit just before I came," Ginny lied, making sure to meet her friend's eye. Lying smoothly was definitely an acquired skill from Tom Riddle. Before she could let Hermione consider this statement, Ginny checked her watch. "We better get to class, huh?" Shouldering her bag, she stood up.

The others followed and Ron muttered something about 'bloody N.E.W.T.s' as they filed out the door. Harry and Ron took the lead at the stairs, the word 'Quidditch' passing between them, and Hermione hung back to say something encouraging that Ginny failed to understand. She drew her hands farther into her sleeves to hide their shaking; she focused carefully on her breathing, keeping it steady and unnoticeable. Her eyes stayed on the shoes and hems in front of her.

__

I did it, she thought numbly_. I didn't look at Harry even once, I didn't break down in front of everyone. Maybe I can do this. Maybe Ron and Hermione won't ask about why we haven't said anything to each other._

"We'll see you at lunch, okay, Ginny?" Hermione said, startling Ginny out of her thoughts.

She looked up and blinked, confused until she realized that they'd come to the corridor that led to her classroom. They had to go up another flight yet.

"Oh. Right. See you, then."

"Good luck! I'll help you catch up tonight!" Hermione smiled reassuringly and gave her hand a squeeze.

Ginny nodded, not quite registering what the Head Girl just said.

"Don't worry, Gin," said Ron. "McGonagall's tough but not mean. At least you're not in Potions anymore." And then he tugged Hermione's hand and started up the steps.

She braced herself for the inevitable as Harry's shoes hesitated at the bottom. The shaking, trembling pain prickled her skin, and she bit her lip.

Harry began trudging up the steps after his friends only a second after Ron and Hermione had started. Startled, Ginny looked up, realizing that the inevitable had missed her.

Only two steps below Ron and Hermione, Harry turned his head to look back. The pain ignited; she almost cried out. His pale face set determinedly, Ginny could see the hurt and deep concern darkly in his green eyes, and knew that Harry was taking her request to 'pretend nothing happened' quite seriously, but, like her, he could not quite reach normalcy yet, so would remain quiet until then.

She wanted to scream _I'm sorry, Harry! I'm a liar!_ But he turned away and disappeared onto the next floor.

Heat stung her eyes and Ginny leaned against the wall, fighting back the worthless tears. She couldn't be strong anymore, not really, not real strength with courage and bravery. Tom Riddle had been right all along; she was weak. She had betrayed Harry by surrendering to Voldemort. Only "fortune" had whisked her out of the dark lord's clutches before her betrayal could be enacted. Knowing this she could not let Harry be close to her again.

She'd suffer her weakness and protect Harry from herself, and herself from Harry's hate if he ever knew the truth.

__

Almost two years later . . .

Chapter One

__

"The First Day of Life"

Rain drizzled down upon the navy umbrella Ginny Weasley carried as she stepped carefully off the curb, missed a puddle, and hurried across Charring Cross Road. She pulled her trench coat tightly around her as a passing bus sprayed dirty water at every disgruntled, groggy-eyed pedestrian. Ginny scrunched her nose in dismay and paused under a used bookstore's overhang to gather her bearings.

All around the shops were opening, but at a less enthusiastic pace than last week. It seemed that with this gloomy start of the week that summer was truly over and the tourists would be fewer. Ginny wasn't concerned with Muggle tourism. What lay heavily on her mind, like the bleary gray rain clouds, was that it was September the first and she was not on her way to King's Cross.

Last June Ginny had graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with less than half her year. She didn't want to count the fatalities. It was easier to pretend most families—whether Muggle or wizard—simply did not want their sons and daughters to return when the school was only half functional. Although this was disheartening and somewhat true, it was better than accepting all of reality.

"More people are returning this year," Ginny thought as she watched a little man push his pretzel cart down the street, looking very miserable. "It won't be like last year."

Yet she knew as she stood under her umbrella, trying to delay walking the three steps to the Leaky Cauldron, that her melancholy spirit wasn't just about Hogwarts. _If only it were_, she thought absently, letting her eyes trail up to the solid gray sky. But nothing would be gained this morning by dwelling on everything, especially standing out in the rain.

Sighing, Ginny stepped out from underneath the overhang and found the door to the Leaky Cauldron. She glanced surreptitiously around at passing Muggles before entering the pub.

Immediately, the pungent aroma of butterbeer, fire whiskey, and baking bread swaddled her. . She squinted in the dark interior as she moved her way through the scattered, chaotic mess of tables, noting that the pub was already serving three customers (a hag and two old, grizzly wizards). Old Tom waved to her from where he was preparing the fireplace for Floo entrance.

"Morning, Miss Ginny!" he greeted cheerily, saluting her with his floppy cap.

"Good morning, Tom."

Ginny left the warm comfort of the room and stepped out into the back lot, her wand out to tap the wall. She had been following this routine for a week now, and it felt strange and comforting, old and new. Every morning from her flat she took a bus to Charring Cross Road, walked down the long, winding street, and entered Diagon Alley through the Leaky Cauldron. During July and August, when she had been living at the Burrow, she merely had to Apparate to the Leaky Cauldron, which was quicker and cheaper.

"Don't think about the money right now. You're going to work," Ginny scolded herself as the brick wall opened to a dismal, dreary Diagon Alley.

Stepping into the flow of wizards scurrying to work, Ginny let her feet take her to Flourish and Blotts. A grin crept onto her lips, despite her sense of foreboding, as she saw Mr. Whitworth, one of the shopkeepers, squeezed into the display window, rearranging the feature titles of the month. The Hogwarts' set curriculum, which had been displayed all August, was already stacked in boxes to the side. Mr. Whitworth tapped on the window and waved cheerily, and Ginny took a deep breath, shook herself, and swung open the door to the familiar tinkling bells.

"Top o' the mornin' to ya, Genevieve!"

"What are you setting up, sir?" Ginny replied, heading for the back storeroom where she could let her coat and umbrella dry.

"Oh, nothing particularly splendid, in my humble opinion," spouted the bookkeeper, his voice carrying far to the back of the crowded store. "So many writers these days can only scribble rubbish."

Ginny winced as she hung her coat on a hook. She paused to gather herself. Had this not been September the first, and not rainy, she might have been able to pull off a convincing, bright smile and cheerful disposition. _At least it isn't Halloween_, Ginny reminded herself. Her body gave an involuntary shudder.

"The morning is tarrying!"

"Yes, sir," she called. Trying to ignore the ill flip in her stomach, Ginny bustled out into the lobby area of the store. Mr. Whitaker's small, bent frame was silhouetted against the display window, and Ginny quickly hurried to relieve him.

"We might get a small Hogwarts rush before ten," he said as he took a seat in a lumpy chair situated between the window and another table piled with The Witch's Harlequin Series. "Late enrollers. That Hermione Granger's article in the _Daily Prophet_ last week reassured some of the wary, you know."

Ginny nodded but didn't answer. She'd read the article, but was not convinced it would encourage parents to allow their children to return to Hogwarts. So much doubt remained of the school's safety and staffing quality. Over the past year, Hermione Granger had been acting as the school liaison and representative to other schools and the Ministry. In Ginny's sixth year, Hogwarts had suffered devastating damage not only to the castle and grounds, also within the student body and staff. After Voldemort's defeat, Hogwarts had been all but inhabitable and unable to function properly. Minerva McGonagall had become Headmistress and only sixth and seventh years could attend. Only half the staff had survived the war, and the most apt students helped in the reconstruction. Very few students returned, whether or not they were pure or Muggle-born. Only now was the school officially opening to all years, but sentiment had been uneasy, and Ginny doubted the Sorting would be very long.

Needing a distraction, Ginny glanced down at the books she was displaying in the window. She frowned and shook her head. _Witch Love in War_, _How I Survived, _and _The Secret Lives of Death Eaters_. The most popular genre for wizard literature right now was often exaggerated accounts of the war. Anything concrete and accurate was still being investigated and researched, but that didn't stop buyers. In Ginny's opinion, she'd rather _not_ read about Voldemort, the Order of the Phoenix, Death Eaters, or . . .

Ginny quickly shelved the books, her eyes quickly darting for any sensational, speculative cover than would ruin the rest of her day. Relieved to not find a single cover plastered with a bad newspaper photo or flashing lightning bolts, she resumed finishing the display.

At one point, the bell chimed and Ginny heard an anxious mother's voice say, "Excuse me, sir, but do you have any Hogwarts books left?"

"Right this way, ma'am."

"Mum!"

Ginny craned her neck to watch a small, slightly built boy with messy brown hair and round glasses point excitedly at the small magazine stand tucked in the corner. He was already wearing his black Hogwarts robes.

"What is it, Tobey?" his mother responded impatiently, her arms already filling with what looked like the first year set.

"It's _Harry Potter_! See?!" Tobey was waving a colorful comic and jumping up and down.

Ginny stifled a groan and stepped down from the display window with the extra books to be shelved. If she had her way, she'd burn every single one of those wretched comic books. It featured an outlandish caricature of Harry Potter's Seeker abilities, childhood, school life, and final battle with Voldemort.

"That's nice, dear," said Tobey's mother, rolling her eyes at Mr. Whitworth. "But you've got plenty of books right here."

"_Mum_, I need something for the train ride! Ferris Bennington told me it was really long, and he's a prefect and he should know, and he's seen Harry Potter fly and hex Death Eaters and even—"

Ginny tuned out Tobey as she completed her first task of the day and moved onto her usual morning routine. She grabbed her duster and began removing the thin layer of dust that Mr. Whitaker thought charming with one hand while straightening books with the other. _"It's not real dust. The books are charmed against that. But the smell of dust in a bookshop—that's all part of the experience. Just can't let it get too thick."_

"Oh my, these are getting heavy. Are you sure these are _all_ required?"

"Here, ma'am," Ginny said quickly, stepping forward, duster tucked under her arm. "I'll take them to the counter for you."

"Oh, thank you, dear!"

The woman gladly shifted the heavy, familiar texts into Ginny's open arms. Ginny was about to turn away when the woman did a double-take, and then narrowed her eyes. Inwardly, Ginny winced, but she kept her face unreadable.

"Aren't you . . .? Oh, you look familiar! Let me think . . ." She put a finger to her lips, squinted again, and suddenly smiled. "Of course! Gina Weasley, isn't it?"

"Ginny."

"Yes, yes. All over the _Daily Prophet_ after, well, you know, _everything_."

"Lots of people were." Ginny tried not to let her face turn red, but it was hard under the strain of books. It was over a year ago since the end of the war, and still those incriminated and innocent were heavily publicized in _The Daily Prophet_, especially members of the Order and those close to it. Perhaps three years ago she might have enjoyed the attention, but now it only depressed and annoyed her.

"And to think," exclaimed Tobey's mother, "you _survived_ that encounter!" The woman's light blue eyes were wide with horror. "Not many did, you know."

"Yes." Ginny shifted the books, wondering if she could just turn her back without being rude. Her arms shook not with the weight, but in cold memory of her time in Voldemort's captive. She still didn't know who had leaked the story to _The Daily Prophet_.

"Mu-_um_!" Tobey hollered, leaning around a shelf end. "We're going to miss the train!"

"Oh, right!"

"I'll just ring these up, then," Ginny said breathlessly, taking her cue. However, she was barely liberated from the onslaught of the persistent woman or Tobey's exclamations as he perused the glamorized comic book.

"Do you know Harry Potter?" the boy asked, peering determinedly behind his round glasses.

Ginny paused, wondering if she should lie. But the hope in the young boy's eyes and his mother's piercing stare made her falter.

"Yes, I do."

Tobey gasped, his eyes going wide. Ginny concentrated on keeping her cheeks from blushing, and nearly double-charged _Standard Book of Spells, Grade One_. Hastily she slid each book into a purchase bag and gave Tobey's mother the total. The boy was still staring at her, as if wondering what to do about it all.

"Have a good day," Ginny said as she took the galleons from the woman. She barely heard Tobey's mother tell him to close his mouth and come along. One of the things she had been trying to avoid thinking about had been placed before her by a tiny, wide-eyed boy in round glasses. Tobey looked nothing like him, really, but it still sent a jolt through her to hear his name.

"Well, that was probably our Hogwarts rush," said Mr. Whitworth, scurrying up to the counter where Ginny was standing dazedly. His beady little eyes, surrounded by feathered wrinkles, peered knowingly at her. "Something on your mind, Genevieve?"

Ginny blinked and shrugged her shoulders. "Not really." It was pointless to think she could evade her keen employer, but neither did she want to talk about what was bothering her. It would take too long, make her too tired. Nothing could be done about it, anyway.

"Must be a strange day for you," mused Whitworth as he pulled a small bin of quills down for inspection from a shelf by the counter. He refused to sell damaged quills. "Your first true day of adulthood, of independence . . ."

Ginny said nothing as she accepted the two damaged quills from the aged wizard and placed them in a small box under the counter. She didn't mind damaged quills, and he happily allowed her to take them home. Sometimes she discovered that one or two quills were perfectly fine.

"You'll miss Hogwarts, I suppose?"

"Yes. Some things." It was the truth. Yet she had only truly had two good years, and even then they hadn't ended very well. Last year had not felt like Hogwarts at all, but she had learned much.

The problem was that Ginny couldn't pinpoint exactly where her melancholy came from. She had plenty of reasons to be depressed, but why was today so poignant? Was it really as Whitworth said, that today was her first true mark of independence? Living in a London flat, working at Flourish and Blotts, and not going off to school? Ginny thought back at where she had been one year ago, wanting desperately not to return to Hogwarts without her brother, Harry, or Hermione. The war had barely been over, and the wizarding world was still recovering. Ron, Harry, and Hermione had dived into helping with reconstruction, and Ginny had at first felt lost without them. She had known as she boarded the Hogwarts Express that Hogwarts would never be the same again.

But it wasn't that . . .

Ginny was busy sorting out the writing journals and diaries when Mr. Whitworth sidled up, a familiar curious, mischievous glint in his eye as the corners of his mouth turned upwards in excitement.

"How is it coming along?" he whispered, despite the store being empty.

Ginny ran her index finger along the spine of a velvety purple journal with a tassel marker. She pressed her lips in a thin line. Non-committal answers suited Whitworth when it was about everyday things, but not writing. Yet she couldn't be too secretive with the old wizard, since he was the one who had pushed a writing journal into her hands, fervently telling her what she had desperately wanted . . .

"Oh, I don't know," Ginny sighed, setting the purple journal down. "I have . . . things, ideas . . . but they're all out of sorts."

Whitworth raised his eyebrows and smiled a bit more.

Ginny gave him a long look. "I _know_ what you would say to that. And, yes, maybe I am, and I'm trying to do something about that."

"Perhaps you just need a focus," suggested Whitworth. He removed his tiny spectacles and cleaned them on his embroidered vest. She was reminded of the old Muggle printmakers she'd seen on a Muggle film over the summer. "You know," he said slyly, "you could easily write your own account of the war, and it would be better than anything these so-called writers can do."

Ginny snorted. Oh, she was quite sure hers would seem just as sensational as any other book out there—except her story would be true. "I couldn't do it," she said quietly. "So much of it is private. I just couldn't."

Whitworth smiled knowingly and patted her forearm. "You decide for yourself." He paused, and then said pointedly, "When am I going to read you?"

"When I have something good." In the beginning, Ginny had owled her first writings to the shopkeeper, starved for instruction and guidance. Although Whitworth was a tough critic, he had understood her insecurity and lack of familiarity with writing. She valued his opinion greatly, and he was one of the very few people who knew her ambition. Not even her family knew. Only Whitworth had read anything.

"You'll never be published if you don't let others see your work," Whitworth often chided gently whenever she refused to bring him a manuscript.

Ginny knew this, but she couldn't suppress her compulsive urge to keep her secret. And she was good at keeping secrets; as good as she was at lying. _All my secrets have hurt people, including myself, except for this one_. Perhaps this was _why_ she wanted to keep her passion—one that didn't need to be returned by another—a secret, stashed away from everyone else who could criticize it. It was a part of her no one else could have, a part of her that didn't hurt.

"Suit yourself, my Genevieve," sighed Whitworth, letting his chin drop and his head shake. He gave a wheezy cough, then straightened up. "Would you be so kind as to move the Kindleshack volumes from the backroom to the balcony shelves? We sold five of them over the weekend."

The rest of her shift went as such. Ginny quietly went about her assigned tasks, and Mr. Whitworth did not interrogate or comment on her somber mood. Generally Ginny shoved all else from her mind to appear happy and talkative as ever, but today, the first of September, too much had compounded.

At one o'clock, her shift ended, and Ginny donned her trench coat and stepped out onto the busy, winding street. Diagon Alley was crowded with Ministry workers out on lunch and a quick bit of shopping. The sun had not emerged, but it had stopped raining. Ginny wove through the crowds towards a small but almost offensively noticeable shop near Quality Quidditch Supplies.

__

Weasley Wizard Wheezes – Inventors of Magical Mayhem and Fun flashed in buoyant letters in a convincing imitation of a Muggle cinema marquee. On either end of the sign, a curious customer was daring to sample a Canary Cream. Ginny smirked at the sudden transformation to an adorable but bewildered little bird.

It was never hard to feel better when Fred and George were around. Over the summer, Ginny had frequently lunched with her twin brothers, often obliging to play the guinea pig for a new product—but only after securing her welfare and their promise to counter the effects before she left.

"Oh look, Fred!" hollered George as Ginny stepped into the shop, the "Chicken Dance" blasting over her head. She never did understand her brothers' obsession with the Muggle tune. "Our little ray of sunshine has graced us with her presence!"

"I'm not late, you twit," Ginny said, carefully picking her way across the store to the counter. She had to duck a small flying dragon blasting random objects with sparks, including a tiny Quidditch player that looked remarkably like a pale, blonde Slytherin Seeker. "Where's Fred?" she asked curiously, noticing that the other twin was still missing.

George, who was sporting vivaciously spiked hair with vibrant blue tips, grinned and shrugged his shoulders. "Angelina stopped by. I never did see her leave."

"They're back together?" Ginny couldn't mask her surprise. After Fred and George had left Hogwarts rather abruptly (and spectacularly), Angelina had apparently kept close correspondence with Fred, and had even sneaked out of the castle to see the twins unveil their new joke shop. Yet after a year of courtship in the middle of a war, they had broken up.

"Yeah, guess so." George grinned again, and then bent his head to study a diagram of . . . what, Ginny wasn't sure. It looked like a layout for another invention, including theorized spells and chemical solutions.

"What are you working on now?"

"It's a secret."

"Come on!" Ginny nudged his elbow. "You can tell me! You _always_ tell me what you're doing. It's the privilege of being your little sister and guinea pig!"

George shook his head and didn't meet her eye. "Sorry, little sis, but I can't let you in on my secret."

"You mean Fred doesn't know?"

George didn't reply.

Ginny scowled and fingered her wand inside her coat pocket. She could easily hex George before he knew what was coming. "You're such a prat."

"Don't _even_ go for your wand, little one," George smirked, barely flicking a glance her way. "And didn't Harry teach you _anything_ about _not_ warning the person you're about to hex?"

"Shut up. Tell me what you're working on."

"Um, no."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Not that I care, anyway." She began wandering off down an aisle, which mostly contained refined versions of the first Wheezes. She wished George hadn't mentioned Harry.

"So, how's the independent life?" George called as Ginny examined a role of Extendable Ears.

"Fine."

"Mum's worried about you."

"When isn't she?"

"She hasn't seen you since you moved to your flat."

"Well, I don't _live_ at The Burrow anymore. It really makes sense."

"I know," said George. "It's just hard on Mum, you know? You're the baby, and now you've fallen out of the nest, and she's worried you're going to go _splat_."

"Gee, thanks," Ginny said sarcastically.

"Are you going home for dinner Saturday?"

"Yeah." It wasn't like she had a choice, Ginny wanted to say, but it would only lead to more questioning. No one in her family seemed to understand that she wanted to _get away_. Charlie and Bill lived far from England, but they were the oldest, and would probably tell her she wasn't ready to strike out on her own. Not even Ron looked at her as if she were an adult.

At that moment, Fred emerged from a door that had been disguised as a bookcase—another Muggle thing Ginny wasn't too sure about. Fred and George seemed to think it a brilliant joke and kept saying things like "I have to go plot world domination" or "Quick, Robin! To the bat cave!"

Fred's hair was tossed and falling in his eyes, and he had a certain glow about him. "Greetings, wee one!"

George had already rolled up and hidden his diagram. "Let's go, I'm famished."

"I see Angelina went out the back way," Ginny said evenly, fighting a grin.

"Oh, yes. She thinks it's fun."

Walking down the streets of London after her lunch with Fred and George, Ginny was able to lose herself in the crowd and sink deep into her thoughts. The sky was an undistinguishable color, as if undecided whether to cloud darkly over for more rain, or give everyone a slight sunnier change in weather. The uneasiness of the atmosphere did nothing to improve Ginny's mood.

__

"You're so . . . passive these days," George had said at lunch. Ginny had not commented. How could she? The observation had sent her into a very contemplative mood, from which neither twin could revive her, and it only reinforced George's conviction.

Ginny sighed and shook her head. Perhaps this was what was wrong with her and why today was so . . . blah. She had become passive to everything, indifferent to what was happening, the importance of today and any other day.

Last Sunday she had moved into a flat with Alyson Baker, her closest friend in her own year. It should have struck Ginny as something momentous, a turning point in her life. She was officially independent, out on her own, on the brink of the future . . . But she had felt nothing, really, no sense of occasion. If she could spot any emotion, it was relief, a sense of escaping a prison. And today it was the first of September, the mark of her no longer attending school, of the beginning of a new era at Hogwarts. An era without her, without Dumbledore, without Harry . . . Again, she felt nothing.

Last year's commemoration had been populated with rounds of excitement and importance to the other graduating witches and wizards, yet Ginny had not felt the passing of it. She had waited, searched for it, but nothing had come to be. Only a small flicker of relief.

Why couldn't her relief be accompanied by an enthralling thirst for freedom? She wanted it, yet now that it was nearly here, she did not feel satisfaction or excitement in it.

"I can't help it," she sighed under her breath as a small dog yipped at her while its owner bought a paper.

Ginny wasn't completely passive; she felt a lot of things—she just repressed them. She had to, for what else could she do about it? So much had come to pass, and it was no one's fault but her own that she wallowed. It made no sense to feel sorry for herself, not for what she'd done. It had been her choice, she had willingly done it, and now she had to live with it.

But self-deprecation felt more secure than moving on.

By four o'clock, Ginny reached Barslow Lane, a residential street spotted with apartment complexes, small coffee shops, and a pawn shop. She drew her keys out of her coat as she reached a soggy sort of brick building with a chipped balcony on the second floor. On the front step sat Mrs. Dowry with her floppy hat topped with velvet, crumbled flowers.

"Hello, Mrs. Dowry," Ginny greeted politely. She kept on, knowing the woman wouldn't respond.

Barslow Hall was owned by Alyson's Uncle Harold on her mother's side. Apparently the Bakers were a large, London-centralized family that dealt mostly in real estate. Harold Baker had been happy to offer a two-bedroom flat to Alyson and Ginny for half the rent, as long as they didn't make their magical powers obvious to the other tenants. Barslow Hall was five stories with no elevator, and Ginny and Alyson lived on the fourth floor. But it was in a safe neighborhood, the utilities were reliable, and the tenants not too loud. Perhaps the only obvious fault was the interior design, which consisted mostly of red. Right off Ginny had changed the red carpet to blue; the walls were still seashell beige.

"How was work?" a sing song voice called as Ginny entered the flat.

"Fine. Slow. Fred and George say hi."

Alyson Baker emerged from the bathroom, her hair wet and tangled, a purple dressing gown tied loosely around her tall, athletic and slender body.

"Are you going somewhere?" Ginny asked as she dumped her purse, umbrella, and coat on the small rickety table just inside the door.

"Yeah. Susannah asked me to go clubbing with her. I was bored, so I said yes." Alyson scowled as she delicately worked a comb through her thick dark hair. It always tangled and knotted. "You should come. You look pale."

"I had a long day." Ginny surveyed the small living room/kitchen area. Although it was a two-bedroom flat, it was small and slightly crowded. The kitchenette consisted of a small stove, fridge, sink, and counter with quaint white cupboards, with a small area of generic tile. Carpet began at the "edge" of the kitchen and formed a tight square area complete with two windows overlooking the small back lot and brick wall. Alyson had found an old, faded green couch at a flea market to occupy the empty space, and it sat in the middle, facing towards a wall that might have been for a television. Instead Ginny had placed a small bookshelf in its place, which was cluttered with books, magazines, and pictures of their family and friends.

"This place needs a lot of work," said Alyson, following Ginny's wandering eyes and drawing her attention. "Posters, pillows, maybe some fish . . ."

"Yeah."

"So, are you going clubbing, then?"

"Not tonight." Ginny's eyes traveled to the closed door of her room and frowned. "I think I'll write tonight."

Alyson gave her a look. "Sure. But I think you need to get out more. Joe's coming with me. I may try to get him with Susannah, but she's a bit too . . . bubbly for him."

"No."

"Ginny!" Alyson cried exasperatedly. "Don't act like you did all summer. I won't let you."

Ginny bit the inside of her lip and didn't meet her friend's eye.

"Fine, you can skip tonight, but I _will_ get you to enjoy yourself." With that, Alyson retreated to the bathroom, and Ginny closed herself in her room. Without undressing, Ginny pulled back her quilt and curled up in the protective darkness of her bedroom.


	2. Past to Present

__

A/N: Thanks to those of you who reviewed and had faith I would get this out sometime!

Chapter Two

__

"The Past to Present"

__

"Don't act like you did all summer!"

Two days later, Ginny sat on the floor in the central room, surrounded by her many journals and rolls of parchment. It was safe to bring them out into a bigger space for now; Alyson was gone for an interview with _Witch Weekly_. Only with the assurance of complete security did Ginny unveil her work from the safety of her room. She didn't know what she wanted, but only that she needed to have everything before her, without disruption.

But Ginny was restless. Alyson's chide repeated constantly in her mind and spurred lethargic, melancholy memories of the summer. She couldn't remember time ever passing in such an unaffected fashion, but there hadn't seemed to be any other way to deal with everything. It was almost like first year, except that she knew exactly what she was doing.

Locking it up, shutting it out. Closing herself. Before, in the Chamber of Secrets, she had _wanted_ to tell, to free herself from Tom Riddle's grasp, but he had controlled the part of her that kept it a secret. Now it was her own will, and it was just as destructive and painful, but Ginny couldn't stop herself. It was innate within her. She was good at pretending, at lying, at acting. But she was so tired of it.

The last summer had been spent mostly in her room, although she regularly worked at Flourish and Blotts, and occasionally she submitted to Alyson's persistent pleads for an outing. In her room she didn't have to pretend.

But it had been so lonely. Ginny had known it would be different once she graduated Hogwarts. Hermione, once her closest friend, was extremely active and preoccupied with her liaison position between Hogwarts, the Ministry, and other European schools. Ron was now training for a newly combined field of Strategic Magical Apprehension, which more or less meant he was another Auror. And Harry . . . Harry was gone.

After Harry's defeat of Lord Voldemort, he, like his friends, had plunged headlong into the reconstruction in every possible way. Unfortunately, the wizard press and public had never been satisfied with his limited, exclusive compliance, and had sought after him almost viciously. After a year, in which Ginny had gathered mostly from Hermione that Harry was very miserable, Remus Lupin had all but forced Harry to take a long, independent sabbatical from the British wizarding world.

Ginny had only just stepped off platform nine and three-quarters to learn that Harry had just left Britain only two days before. It had struck her as little as anything had in the past two years. After spending years trying to open herself to Harry—and he in turn to her—she had begun to close herself off. Their friendship hadn't ended, necessarily, but it had become less intimate, less gratifying. Over the summer after the war, everyone had been reeling and diving into rebuilding their lives. Once she'd returned to Hogwarts, Ginny found letters from Harry coming less and less, each one becoming more indifferent until Harry merely dropped in a hello through Ron or Hermione.

__

It's my fault, Ginny knew, but it made her no less miserable. What else could be done? She had sworn herself off Harry, lying in that infirmary bed, trying to shut out the world. What a liar she was! It seemed to be her only talent, lying and surrendering.

"You sod," Ginny muttered aloud. She jumped at the sound of her voice. Shaking her head, she blinked and focused on the piles around her.

__

What was she doing? What was she looking for?

The questions drew her back to the summer before her third year . . .

It was a blustery day to be shopping in Diagon Alley, but Ginny had agreed to come with her mother. Ron had wanted to stay and write letters to Harry and Hermione. Fred and George were banned from the outing, since they were mostly the cause of it. Mum had not been thrilled to find all of her cookbooks had been destroyed in the 'pursuit of inventive genius.'

Which was why they were about to enter Flourish and Blotts; for once, they were having a convenient clearance sale on cookbooks.

Ginny didn't mind one bit. She loved the bookstore, even if she'd really only been able to purchase her schoolbooks there. Most of her novels had been handed down through the family, given by a bored classmate, or bought at a secondhand store. All of her books were tattered and falling apart, despite her meticulous care, due to her habit of several readings.

Ginny loved the smell of new books.

As her mother opened the door, allowing a gush of wind to howl through and rattle the chimes, Ginny allowed herself a smile. Even the _chimes_ were dear!

"Shut the door, shut the door!" a cracked voice squeaked as Ginny entered on the breeze. A tiny man was shuffling around the counter, waving his arms as pages fluttered noisily in the tunneled wind.

Hastily, Ginny slammed the door shut. Rain splattered against the glass paneling.

"Well," came the sigh, "what can I do for you ladies?"

Ginny turned from the door. Her mother was already perusing the cluttered discount table almost hidden amongst the teetering towers and sliding shelves of books.

"Oh, I'm fine, thank you," chirped Mum, flipping through the colorful _Contemporary Wizarding Cuisine – Magic in the Kitchen!_ Mum always scrutinized her household books, and Ginny suddenly felt sorry as the large volume was firmly set down.

It would be awhile, Ginny decided, and slowly headed for the fiction shelves towards the back. She didn't know if she had enough money to actually buy a book, but she may be able to read a chapter and agonize over the outcome later. Finishing it in her own mind was fun, even if she may be well off from the intended plot.

But she never reached the back of the store.

Ginny's nonchalant steps paused halfway down the first aisle. She tried to move on, but she couldn't. Her fingers itched with a tingle, as if they were just waking from a deep sleep. Biting her lip, she pressed them to her thighs to stifle the sensation.

How could she have forgotten this path to the back of the store? Usually she took the winding routes through the zig-zag of shelves.

A large section on writing supplies ran from the purchase counter to the back shelves. Quills and parchment rolls of all makes, shapes, and sizes filled most of the long shelf, but Ginny had momentarily forgotten the middle: the diaries.

They spread out before her in neat stacks according to size and color. Ginny's eyes traveled over the simple leather bound to the decoratively embroidered and luscious velvets. A desire crept up, tightening her stomach and throat until she thought she'd be sick. Her fingers itched even more. She clamped her hands behind her back, hoping to still a nervous twitch.

She closed her eyes, feeling slightly dizzy. How she _longed_ to write in a diary. She needed it. To pinch a quill between her fingers and watch ink form into curvy letters, then words, and finally whole thoughts and ideas . . . Maybe then she could find order, confession, and . . . what?

But she couldn't. She'd promised herself never again.

"You're _pathetic_," she whispered vehemently, not sure whether she was addressing herself or the diaries.

Slowly, Ginny opened her eyes. She _knew_ that Tom Riddle did not lurk in any of these empty pages, but she couldn't get past it. Giving herself up in pages was stupid and childish. What good was there in it? It'd only trap her . . .

"Looking for a diary, are you?"

Ginny jumped at the quiet murmur from her right shoulder. She gave another jump to find the shopkeeper's tiny bent form leaning towards her. For a moment she just looked at him. He was old – maybe even over a hundred. Thin, spotted skin crinkled over his sharply boned face but ran smooth over his nearly bald scalp. Twinkling black eyes peered from behind thick, black, rectangular spectacles that slid down a slightly hooked nose. His smile, like a crack in the earth, curved slyly at her.

"N-no," Ginny stammered, taking a step back. She felt distinctly unsettled.

"No? You're just the age for it."

"I _had_ a diary," she said stiffly. "Only when I was eleven. They're for silly little girls."

"Perhaps," said the shopkeeper, still smiling queerly. He rocked back on his heels, putting his hands behind his back. Immediately Ginny let hers drop to her side, but they started to itch again. His smile widened.

"Yes," the old man said briskly. "I can definitely see it."

Ginny stiffened, but kept her eyes from darting to the old wizard. _How did he know?_ No one knew about it – no one except for Harry, her family, and Dumbledore.

"Diaries _are_ for little girls," the shopkeeper nodded. "But that does not stop your fingers from itching, does it?"

Ginny looked at him sharply. "What?" Her fingers clenched into fists.

"Oooh, yes, I can definitely see it." The crack was widening even more, and Ginny could see the dry pink of his tongue before he spoke again. "You're addicted to the feel of the quill, the scratching of the tip on the page, the flow of ink. Constantly you're tormented by thoughts and ideas, images and words—words that flow with the ink—it keeps you awake at night, distracts you in your lessons, makes you dizzy with agitation . . ."

He trailed off, and Ginny could hear her breathing. It was shallow. Her heart fluttered with fright and excitement at this strange man's words. How did he know? She blinked as she stared down at the empty faces of the diaries before her. To her they weren't just empty; to her they were waiting to be filled.

"Now, I see your trouble," he went on, as if she weren't acting oddly in the least. "What good is a diary, when all you do is write about your miserable or wonderful day? Well, that's jolly well, but not for you. Now, a writing _journal_, on the other hand, is quite different."

A speckled, wiry hand appeared amongst the red, blue, black, and green covers. It lifted one of deep red leather, larger than the others, and wrapped it in the shopkeeper's arms. He ran a hand lovingly over the faintly glossy cover.

"A _journal_, miss, is so much more than a diary." Excitement split his voice like crackers over soup. "You've got stories in your head—characters, places, plots. Write them down in here. It can be orderly or chaotic and as personal or impersonal as you choose. As long as it is _yours_."

Ginny stared at the shopkeeper, undecided whether to absorb his excitement or not. He was so _passionate_, so _true_. Her eyes fell to the unopened diary—no, _journal_—in his hands, wondering if, possibly, she could believe him. The itching in her fingers was becoming unbearable; a corner of her mind too often ignored was becoming overwhelmed. She wanted to let it come more than she wanted it to stop.

"A . . . journal?" she finally said. He nodded eagerly. Such energy seemed to tremble in his small, feeble frame. "Well."

What could she say to him? _"I'm sorry, but when I was eleven, a diary possessed me and made me set a great dirty basilisk loose on everyone. Makes one not fond of diaries, really."_

There was suddenly a shriek and crash, followed by something that sounded like many heavy objects falling over one another. The shopkeeper, barely startled, smiled demurely at Ginny. "Perhaps I shall assist your mother?" And off he went, as quietly as he'd come.

__

Maybe one of the books doesn't appreciate rejection. Ginny turned away from the sight of her mother glaring accusingly at the collapsed discount display. Again, her eyes fastened on the many diaries—and journals—laid out before her. Flat covers of leather and fabric danced before her, whirling with the sudden vision of words forming into stories and scenes, not essays on goblin rebellions and village trolls. She tipped forward on her toes, but quickly rocked back, her heart pounding.

__

I'm not going to do it. I don't care what that loony man says! I don't write things except for schoolwork.

But then her eyes focused and paused. The decision was made.

Resting between a star-spangled diary and dragon-covered event booklet was Ginny's journal. It seemed to cower between the two elaborate designs, as if ashamed to be associated with them. Not quite as large as the red leather journal, this one was caught between being childish and adult. Petite, young but worldly, it was the color of the night sky, caught between deep purple, blue, and black. When her trembling hand reached out to touch it, she found what appeared to be velvet was actually soft leather.

Ginny moaned softly.

She wanted it. She wanted it badly. Not just this journal, but what the shopkeeper had said. His promise burned from her chest, down her right arm, and to her fingertips. It increased with every second she did not pick up the night sky journal. Biting her lip, she picked it up, hastily letting it fall open in her palms.

The pages were crisp, fresh, and blank. They looked inviting, beckoning . . . but not as if they would trap her. Tom Riddle's diary had looked similarly friendly, if somewhat drawing, as if demanding for its pages to be filled. She felt a pull, a demand, but her eyelids didn't feel heavy, and the dizziness was something exhilarating, not sickening . . .

__

I could never have it, Ginny realized suddenly as her fingers felt the smooth pages. Something as wonderful and sophisticated as this journal would probably have too many sickles, maybe even a galleon, to it.

Feeling as if she were tossing a friend into a raging sea of watery death, Ginny returned the journal to the shelf. However, she couldn't bear the indignity of its previous neighbors, so she placed it next to the red journal, the shopkeeper's choice. Sadly, she shifted a step down to gaze at the cheap brown and black books. It seemed perfectly horrid and disgraceful, but it couldn't be helped. Indifferently, Ginny reached for a brown journal.

"Oh _no_, that won't do! That simply will not do!"

Not for the first time, Ginny jumped at the shopkeeper's sudden appearance. The brown journal slapped down amongst its brothers. "S-sorry?"

The shopkeeper's beady eyes were alive and skittering as he shuffled towards her, heaving slightly. "Young Genevieve, that is _not_ the way to go about it. You cannot _frown_ when you are choosing your other half! Would you frown at your love when your heart beats so wildly?"

Ginny's jaw dropped.

"Choose!"

It was a command. Yet his eyes still shined with merriment.

Shaking, Ginny reached for the night sky, her mouth wanting to protest that she couldn't possibly afford it. "I-I _can't_—"

"Rubbish!"

Ginny shook her head but clutched the journal to her chest. She wanted to race out of the store with it, find a quill, and let her fingers cool the burn.

"Ginny! We're leaving soon!" her mother called.

Slowly, Ginny reached into her pockets, which were barely filled with knuts and sickles. Not even a single galleon. Heat stung her cheeks. How utterly humiliating! The family's poverty rarely troubled her, she was used to it, but now she could feel disappointment down to her very core.

"Pah. Away with that."

Ginny's eyes rose from her palm to the shopkeeper. The smile was gone, his thin mouth lost in serious wrinkles. "From one writer to another," he said quietly, and turned to shuffle upfront to where her mother was waiting.

Back in the flat, surrounded by her own words, Ginny smiled softly as she lifted her first journal from the pile. The leather was cracked on the spine from age and use, but it was still supple and made one think more of velvet than leather. Every inch of parchment was filled with words and doodles, stories and poems, thoughts and ideas. Mostly it contained observations of the people at Hogwarts; more often than not, she expanded on what she knew until it was almost fictional.

"Those were the days," Ginny said with a sigh. She had not actually been content as she'd pretended, but at least she had been set with a school life where many decisions were made for her. At Hogwarts she hadn't contemplated any future other than what Voldemort presented.

Life without Tom Riddle, without Harry, took some getting used to.

Just as Ginny was returning the journal to the pile, a rat-tat at the window alerted her to the arrival of an owl. Frowning, she slowly stood up, groaning at the stiffness in her legs. How long had she been sitting here?

"Who're you?" she demanded as she opened the window. A chestnut colored owl with a speckled front swooped in, a letter in its beak. It circled once, and then landed obediently on her outstretched arm.

The owl hooted and stretched out its neck. "Thank you." She peered at the handwriting, which was in a metallic crimson. The artistic, slashy handwriting was familiar, although she had not seen it for quite a long time. Feeling curious and oddly nervous, Ginny opened the letter, which upset the owl on her arm. It took off and found a perch on the back of a chair.

__

Dear Ginny,

How've you been? I bumped into Ron the other day, and he said you'd moved out to Muggle London. Anyway, I was wondering if we could get together sometime. I know much of Muggle London, and my uncle even owns a little café here.

How was your summer? Ron said you work part-time at Flourish and Blotts. He seemed reluctant to talk much about you—I don't think he ever truly got over you know what.

Write back,

Dean

P.S. Like the new owl? I named him Leonardo.

Ginny reread the letter twice, and then sat down on the lumpy couch. Dean wanted to see her. Dean Thomas. A corner of her mouth quirked up over what the name meant. Ron's indignation for her little white lie on the Hogwarts Express, Dean's surprised, demanding letter after Ron sent him a Howler, and then, for kicks, messing with Ron's mind. Dean was a wonderful collaborator.

The owl—Leonardo—hooted inquiringly when Ginny didn't move. She started and glanced down at the letter, and then out the window.

It was a bleak day, as it had been all week, with a rather undecided nature. The sky was bright gray, almost white. Suddenly, Ginny couldn't stay within the confines of the flat. Quickly, she gathered her parchment and journals, grabbed her patched, quilted satchel, shoved a Muggle notebook and pen inside, and grabbed her trench coat. She shoved Dean's letter into her coat pocket with her keys and wand, slung the satchel over her shoulder, and walked out into the afternoon.

Ginny liked walking. At home, she used to wander the many woods and fields around the Burrow, often lost in an imaginative story that she acted out, secluded from prying, skeptical eyes. In crowded London she couldn't play in such a way, but she could still imagine and lose herself. Still unaccustomed to London's traffic, pedestrian and automobile, she felt invigorated again by the sense of adventure.

Eventually when her feet began to tire, Ginny entered a large, shady park. Small duck ponds covered in lily pads blotted the sloping, grassy lawns. She spotted seven young boys playing football, and a young couple lounging on a blanket. Wanting not to interfere with either group, she continued on until she found an empty bench on a secluded bend in the path.

Then, with physical exertion giving her no other choice, she plopped down on the bench and retrieved Dean's letter.

It wasn't a question of writing back, but of what she should say. Did "get together" mean date, or just hang out? She'd done both with Dean and hadn't minded either. They didn't even separate on bad terms, but agreed that for Ron's sanity, they should call it off. Well, that was one reason. It was rather odd how they'd begun, anyway.

"Oy!"

Ginny looked up just in time to duck what was unmistakably a bludger. The air whooshed over her head. When she lifted her head, she had to duck again from wizard on a broomstick.

"What the--?" she sputtered, cautiously lifting her head a second time. She heard laughter and mild swearing. Turning to the right, she saw a group of wizards and witches decked out in Quidditch gear. Two were carrying a heavy trunk, and everyone else had broomsticks.

"Hey!" cried a boy from the football game. "Did you see that, Billy?"

"Uh-oh," muttered a tall, lean wizard. He pulled out his wand. "Mary, mind helping, hmm?"

"Oh, right!" A frizzy haired witch, in what appeared to be Muggle jodhpurs, scurried after her long-striding companion.

Ginny gaped at the group. What were they going to do, play Quidditch in the park with Muggles everywhere? They couldn't constantly Obliviate everyone – someone at the Misuse office was bound to notice.

"Hey, what about her, Michael?"

"Oh – yeah."

It took Ginny exactly two seconds to register what was happening. Clearly the Quidditch players thought she was a Muggle. Not only that, but they'd sent Michael Corner over to erase her memory! Quickly, Ginny stood up, shouldered her satchel, and marched towards the group, not at all wanting to be the one without the upper hand.

"Michael," Ginny greeted when they were only three paces apart.

"Ginny?" Michael stopped, a look of surprise crossing his face. Then he quickly looked a bit sour, as if he was still upset over the Quidditch match nearly four years ago. "What are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," said Ginny, raising an eyebrow and looking around him at the approaching players. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't this a _Muggle_ park?"

"You _are_ wrong," Michael said with a cheeky grin. Absently, Ginny thought he looked rather attractive like that, but she resented his obvious delight in correcting her. "About ten meters down, it becomes wizard territory. There's a pitch, and we're playing."

"Yeah," said a familiar voice from behind Michael. "But try telling the bludger that. We need a new box, the lock keeps snapping on this one." Alicia Spinnet shouldered past Michael and grinned at Ginny. "Hey! How's it going? I haven't seen you in ages!" She put an arm around Ginny, while still gripping her broomstick (which looked to be the same she used at Hogwarts). "You've got to play! Chamberlain broke his shoulder last week, so we need a Seeker."

"I haven't played Seeker since fourth year," Ginny said quickly. But she felt a bit of excitement charge through her body. "And I haven't played at all since fifth. I'm really rusty."

"That's alright," Alicia grinned. "We were going to play sans Seeker points, or just do two chasers on a side, but this is better!"

"I don't have a broomstick. And," she added, nodding to all the players surrounding her, "aren't you all being conspicuous with yours?"

"Nope. They look like umbrellas," said a blonde, freckled wizard. He was holding a Nimbus Two Thousand and wearing—she couldn't believe it—a Cannons jersey. His hair was worn back in a short ponytail, and he had one pierced ear, which was adorned with a tiny, emerald dragon.

"Don't worry about the broomstick. You can use Chamberlain's," Alicia said dismissively. "We always bring a spare, anyway."

Ginny shrugged her shoulders and looked around at the assemblage. The tall wizard and the short witch had returned from erasing memories and were gazing at her curiously. The blonde, who reminded her of Bill, was grinning with Alicia. Michael looked less than thrilled, which Ginny thought childish of him. The other two, a witch and a wizard, whom she figured were Beaters, judging by their size, were eyeing her inquisitively as well.

"I don't know. I'm not that great of a Seeker."

Alicia rolled her eyes. "You're just saying that because of whom you replaced. Who wouldn't feel lousy following up Harry? You catch Snitches all right. If Chaser opens up, you can have a spot there, okay?"

Ginny laughed at her older Quidditch mate. Alicia _did_ have a point. No one flew better than Harry. She felt a pull on her gut at the mention of him, but quickly pushed it aside. "So, are you Captain, then?"

The short blonde wizard laughed. "No, but I might as well give her the job. Hi, I'm Phil Mason. And you are?"

"Ginny Weasley."

"Hey! I remember your brother Charlie." Phil's grin widened. "Can you play like him?"

"No—"

"Yes, she does," Alicia interrupted, elbowing Ginny in the ribs. "She's just trying to be modest."

"Great."

Before she knew what was happening, Ginny was being shouldered down the winding path, under a weeping willow, and onto what was definitely a Quidditch pitch. A deep depression cut in the earth was surrounded by tall trees furnished with platforms to watch the game. Another team was already flying through their warm-ups, all wearing matching red jerseys.

"We haven't any of our own," explained Alicia. "Phil says we'll get them, we just need a sponsor. Not too many businesses want to sponsor an intramural league."

"Here's your ride," said Phil, pushing a Comet Three-Forty into Ginny's hands. "It lists slightly to the left, so watch for that."

"I'll watch your satchel," said the tallest wizard, the one who'd Obliviated the young boys. "I'm scorekeeper."

And then Ginny was introduced to Mary Grant, the frizzy-haired witch who played Chaser with Phil and Alicia; Cassandra Rolland, a very built woman with spiky purple hair and a pierced nose, who played Beater; and Mitch Tuesday, who could have been an American linebacker and accompanied Cassandra in the bat-wielding duo. Michael, surprisingly, played Keeper.

"Mount up!" Phil called as Dorian Wilson, the scorekeeper, sat hard on the trunk to keep it from releasing the balls prematurely.

Ginny felt a familiar thrill as she kicked off into the air and circled the pitch, feeling almost as if she were back at Hogwarts. When the quaffle, bludgers, and snitch were released, she forgot all her worries and focused solely on the game.

"And just where have you been, missy? It's nearly dark! You could have been kidnapped, mugged, murdered, or ran over by a cabbie!"

"Huh?" Ginny had barely opened the door before Alyson was upon her in a frightening impression of her mother. "What are you on about?"

Alyson grinned, flipping her dark ponytail over her shoulder. For once she wasn't dressed for a night out and was donned in grubby old sweats. "I come home, dying to tell you about my glamorous interview, and—no one's home!" She leaned around Ginny and raised her eyebrows at the broomstick. "What's that for?"

"Flying, generally." Ginny dropped her satchel on the wobbly table by the door and moved into the living room, where she deposited the old broomstick against the wall.

"No, I thought you were going to sweep the floor," Alyson snorted. "You look rather winded. Couldn't be Quidditch, could it?"

"It could." Ginny tossed her coat over the couch and went into the bathroom to start her bath water. She felt sweaty and gritty, but very charged. "I went to a park today—Heath, or something—and there's apparently a pitch there and everything. Alicia's on it, this cute guy named Phil, and—ugh—Michael."

"_Corner_?"

"The one and the same."

"Is he still being a prat?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "I couldn't believe it. Honestly, sometimes I wonder why I ever dated him." But she knew why. He'd smiled at her, had given her the attention she'd wanted from someone else. Sometimes she felt guilty about her first boyfriend. She was never interested that much in Michael Corner, a Ravenclaw with a handsome smile, but he had been useful to prove a point. Truthfully, she was as much a prat as Michael.

"I think I'm going to play regularly on the team," said Ginny after a pause. She hadn't meant to stop, but Alyson's raised eyebrows jerked her out of her reverie. "Everyone else is fun. It's nothing special, just a bunch of us who still like to play. Some of the teams are sponsored, but we're not. Know anyone who wants to patron us? We're not too bad, even if I've seen better on the Hufflepuff side."

"Are you Chaser?"

"Seeker," Ginny sighed, scrunching her nose. "I don't _mind_ it. It's just that it's not as . . . active as Chaser."

Alyson chuckled. "Wow, I remember that argument. Potter took it personally, didn't he? _What do you mean Seeker is boring?_ We were all expecting a great dirty row."

Ginny averted her gaze to the tap and turned it off, feeling heat rise into her cheeks. She should have known any mention of Quidditch would eventually lead to Harry. And then talk of Harry would lead to _How is Harry these days?_, which would lead to Ginny confessing that she hadn't the slightest idea, and then she would mope the rest of the night and silently chide her dejection . . .

"I got an owl from Dean Thomas today," Ginny said, before Alyson could inquire about Harry. Her cheeks were coloring again and she couldn't seem to prevent it.

Alyson's dark eyes lit up. "Oh, _really_? And?"

Ginny shrugged, trying to act nonchalant as she peeled off her light jumper. "He just asked how I was doing, if I wanted him to show me around London sometime."

"Oh, a date!"

"No, not a date. We're just friends, Allie. And besides, I haven't seen him in nearly two years." She untied her ponytail and raked her fingers through her hair.

"Sure, just friends." Alyson crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway, a smirk scrunching her smooth face. "I recall a particular incident in a certain broom cupboard—"

"_That_ was still friendly!"

"About as friendly as it gets," Alyson snorted. "So, did you tell him yes?"

Ginny paused, curling her toes into the fluffy blue bath rug. "Not yet."

"And why not?"

"I dunno."

"You are so difficult," Alyson said exasperatedly. "Honestly, what's wrong with being chummy with Dean? He's cute, artsy, and up for a laugh. If you felt better, you two could come with me and whoever I can snag for a night."

Ginny bit her lip. All afternoon she'd been able to space Dean off as she searched for a flash of gold and flutter of wings. But now she had to face it again. It wasn't so much that she was avoiding Dean, but that he might notice what George had noticed. It meant more pretending that she was happy as ever.

"If you don't owl him, I will," Alyson chirped when Ginny didn't answer.

"No! No, I'll do it."

Feeling distinctly weary, Ginny shooed Alyson out of the bathroom. If only a soak in the bath could soothe more than physical ailments . . .

__


	3. With the Rest of the World

A/N: Once again, thanks go to Cliodne, my beta, and all of you reviewing! J Also, some of you have expressed eagerness to see Harry, but I'm afraid he's rather AWOL right now. He'll come into play eventually. However, this isn't exactly a fast-moving plot, so don't expect high action or anything.

Chapter Three

__

"With the Rest of the World"

"Ginny."

A whimper escaped her as she felt Voldemort's cool fingertip trace her left cheek, drawing her buried face away from the armchair to him. She felt her eyelids lift.

"I am your will."

"No." It was so soft, so quiet that Ginny thought she'd imagined it.

"No? Do you still persist with your foolish 'bravery'? Gryffindor, a thoughtless and incompetent house. I believe your entire family consists of Gryffindors?"

Ginny bit her lip to keep from retorting angrily. She was not going to fall for Voldemort's taunting. Yes, I am a Gryffindor, and we're brave, just, and good. Unlike you!

__

"I see you are not in a conversational mood today," said Voldemort, pressing his palms together in a steeple. "Very well, we will dispose of the preliminaries. Will you or will you not be cooperative?"

"I will not."

Voldemort's slit eyes narrowed, but he did not seem at all surprised. "Very well. Crucio."

Ginny awoke with a start. Gasping against the pain that racked her body, she lay still, forcing her eyes to stay wide open. She focused on the soft glow from the city lights coming through the window, knowing that it would anchor her in reality, not in her memories. When her heart slowed, she breathed deeply, slowly feeling the effect of the dream wearing off.

__

At least it wasn't the worst of the nightmares, Ginny comforted herself as she carefully untangled her legs from the twisted sheets. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in her pillow. Her nails dug into the mattress. The worst of it was waking up and _knowing_ what the other nightmares could have been and knowing that they weren't nightmares at all. The Cruciatus Curse, however terrible and agonizing, was more bearable than the truth.

But she had not been able to bear it.

__

"You are weak, Ginny. Why do you think Dumbledore placed that protection charm over your mind? He knew you would not last without it. You would have surrendered at the first burst of pain."

Voldemort had been right. Everyone else had been wrong.

Images, feelings, and words flashed behind her closed eyelids. Abruptly, Ginny threw herself off her bed, through her door, and into the bathroom. Without flicking on the light, she heaved over the toilet, as if Lucius Malfoy had just fed her the Restorative Draught that would render her "fit" for another round of torture. She retched until tears streamed down her eyes and hot stabs of pain sliced through her stomach. When she had nothing left, Ginny sank to the cool floor, the soft rug feeling scratchy against her cold skin. She was transported to the cold cell under Malfoy Manor.

"Gin?" A light flickered on, and Ginny jerked out of her darkness. Blinking and squinting in the sudden brightness, she managed to fasten her mind on the hovering form of Alyson, bedraggled with only one arm through her dressing gown. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Ginny moaned, turning her face away. She shivered involuntarily.

Alyson said nothing, but stepped forward to flush the toilet's hideous contents. Then she closed the lid and sat upon it, finally putting her arm through her sleeve. Gathering herself, Ginny stood up and moved to the sink to splash cold water on her face. It was an old routine, but usually Alyson pretended to still be asleep, despite being the lightest sleeper Ginny had ever known.

"I'll go make some tea," Alyson said quietly, jumping up from her perch. Clearly, she was familiar with Ginny's nightmare regimen but didn't want to make a point of it.

Ginny sighed and splashed her face. Goosebumps trailed up her arms. She stared at herself in the mirror, noting her ghostly complexion and how her freckles and the dark circles around her bloodshot eyes clearly stood out.

"You're such a wreck," she told her reflection. "An absolute mess. And you _put_ yourself there."

Having woken herself and Alyson up at four in the morning, Ginny decided to compensate for it by cleaning the flat up as much as possible before her scheduled afternoon with Dean. Alyson thought it a "splendid proposition", and after they sat quietly with their tea while making small talk about Alyson's new job with _Witch Weekly's_ fashion department, Alyson returned to bed.

"Feel better, okay? I'll help you pick something out for your date when I get up," was her parting.

"It's not a date," Ginny argued, but Alyson only stuck out her tongue before closing the door.

Not for the first time, Ginny was grateful for her friend. In her second year, it had been Alyson who had first befriended Ginny. Chiding the other girls for pestering Ginny for details about being taken hostage (which they thought thrilling), and being saved by Harry Potter (which they thought romantic), Alyson had established herself as the leader of the second year girls, and the others respected her. Through Alyson, Ginny had regained some confidence and friends, although she was never very close to any of the other girls.

Alyson was a contradiction. Highly inquisitive and gossipy, she was always an informant of the juicy rumors circulating Hogwarts, but with Ginny, she did not push for dormitory confessionals, and seemed to accept that Ginny did not want to talk about the Chamber of Secrets, her nightmares, or the time she was kidnapped. It'd been a shock for Ginny when Alyson announced she should just "jump Harry and get it over with in a broom cupboard." Not once had Ginny hinted at her feelings for Harry, but somehow Alyson had known.

Which was so disconcerting and wonderful about Alyson Baker. She was sharp and intelligent enough to read beyond the surface and know when not to touch beneath it. While in school, Ginny had considered her closest friend Hermione Granger, and she had confessed a thing or two to the older girl. But in seventh year, Ginny had found a deepening friendship with Alyson; it would have been a very lonely time without her.

Wrapped up in her dressing gown but still shivering (she was always cold now, it seemed), Ginny set to work on the flat. By seven-thirty, she had it looking presentable, though still obviously inhabited by poor novices.

Still burning with jittery energy, Ginny tackled an unsuccessful breakfast of eggs, toast, and bacon. She'd never been a passable cook. It was just something else that separated her from the rest of her family; even Ron could handle cooking something edible every now and then. Yet anything she touched resulted in ruin.

"What're you doing?" Alyson exclaimed near eight when she finally emerged from her bedroom. A thin haze of smoke filled the flat.

"Burning things," Ginny announced cheerfully. It was eight, she didn't have to work, and her dark feelings were tucked carefully away again. She was not going to take anyone's contemplative, scrutinizing looks today. Today was Friday, she was going to meet Dean and try to come up with a viable excuse to not return to the Burrow tomorrow.

"Spectacular," yawned Alyson, sitting down at the wobbly table. Wand in hand, she summoned a box of cereal and carton of milk. "You know, these Muggles _do_ know a thing or two about breakfast food. Joe's showing his love for family by this," she gestured to the sugary, flaky concoction in her bowl.

Ginny rolled her eyes and sat down to a bagel, since she'd ruined all of the bacon, eggs, and bread slices. Honestly, how hard was it to toast bread? "What a benevolent cousin you have. Maybe we can hire him on as cook."

"And what, pay him with smiles?"

Ginny grinned.

Alyson stretched and smiled, shoveled cereal into her mouth, and said, "I suppose magic would work. He's been begging me ever since June. Used to try to 'startle' magic out of me since we couldn't use it outside of school. Idiot."

Ginny giggled. "Oh, if he met Dad, he could start a trade. Muggle things for magic."

"When do you meet Dean?" Alyson asked. She was down to the colored marshmallows, which had expanded in the milk and looked a bit soggy.

"Two, at the Leaky Cauldron."

"What're you going to wear?"

"What does it matter?" Ginny shrugged. "It's only Dean."

"Of _course_ it matters!" Alyson rolled her eyes. "It _always_ matters."

"You're getting _way_ too into this model thing," Ginny smirked.

After a week of dreary weather, the sky cleared long enough on Friday afternoon to allow Londoners to reminisce over the warmer days of summer. Ginny enjoyed her walk from Barslow Lane to Charring Cross Road, feeling as if the sun was pouring warmth into her deeply chilled bones. She even smiled slightly as she remembered her previous afternoons spent with Dean Thomas, and her little joke that had more or less officially started their friendship.

Her fourth year at Hogwarts had definitely been her "breaking out" period. Two years had passed without anything interesting happening to her, and everyone had more or less forgotten about the Chamber of Secrets, or had grown tired of receiving no answers from her. Ginny was finally feeling comfortable and at ease with people, truly believing that they had no ulterior motives for wanting to talk to her, and Alyson's patient friendship had convinced Ginny of this. Plus, a boy was noticing her. Michael Corner had asked her for a dance at the Yule Ball in third year, and had occasionally passed her a note in the corridors. Owls over the summer had halted after she'd gone to Grimmauld Place, but Michael had apparently been interested enough not to be deterred.

But before Michael had come, something else had happened. While watching Harry stumble miserably around with Parvati Patil, his eyes cast wistfully towards Cedric and Cho, Ginny had an epiphany.

She didn't just want to be Harry's girlfriend—she wanted to be his last.

Raising her chin, Ginny had asked Neville for another dance—which resulted in toe massacre. She'd limped as subtly as she could back to the table while Neville scurried off for some butterbeer. It was then that Ginny had first chatted with Dean.

Dean had squeezed himself between two rather entwined Hufflepuffs, a sketchpad under his arm. He'd quickly spotted Ginny, remembered she was Neville's date, and hurried over. Dean had smiled, asked her how the night was going, and given his condolences to her toes, which she had not even complained about. Then he'd flipped open his notepad and begun sketching Angelina and Fred, who were in the middle of an extravagant tango. Ginny had leaned forward to watch and compliment his work. He'd shrugged it off, but the corners of his mouth had turned upwards, and he began chatting with her as his eyes darted from the sketchpad to the dancers and back again.

Later in the evening, Ginny was at another table talking to Alyson and her other friends, when Michael Corner asked her for a dance. Still empowered by her revelation, she'd accepted. Why shouldn't she? Neville had retreated to talking with 'the guys' and wouldn't miss her.

After that night, her life seemed to hold two different routes for her. Her fourth and fifth years had been her best. She was dating, participating in an illegal "study group", and befriending Harry and more people outside of her year and House. She had formed a reputation, and people seemed to forget all about the Chamber of Secrets. Pretending wasn't hard, it didn't really take a toll, because even _she_ believed that she would be okay; Voldemort was real and out there, Harry and her family were in terrible danger, but she could deal with it, because she had survived and was living her own life.

Even while she sat on the train home in fourth year, devastated with Harry, Ron, and Hermione, she had been fully aware of another Ginny, one who had dumped Michael Corner, played on the Quidditch team, and cursed Draco Malfoy. That Ginny had bested Cho Chang, Harry's sweetheart, at creating a name for Dumbledore's Army and catching the Snitch from under her nose. When slipped into that Ginny, she could shake off the cold of the Chamber, the frequent nightmares, and the knowledge that she was stupid, weak, and going to die.

__

"Good for you. Just choose someone—better—next time."

"Well, I've chosen Dean Thomas, would you say he's better?"

Crossing the street with a harried group of tourists, Ginny smiled and shook her head, remembering how Ron's chess pieces had flown across the compartment. She had said it to get a rise out of him, but out of the corner of her eye, she'd seen the look he'd sent Harry. Distraction had been key, and her mind had been somewhat on her fourth year.

After the ball, they sometimes greeted each other in the corridors, and Dean had escaped from a mooning Seamus and played a game of chess, since she'd been training her used, motley assembled side to battle with Ron. When her fourth year came, Ginny did not see much of Dean; he was swamped in O.W.L.s, she had Michael and Quidditch. But once the DA had started, she had occasionally chatted with him, and one night even posed for a sketch (which she couldn't sit still for). He'd been one of the first to congratulate her after a match, and had called Michael a "cowardly sod" for getting stroppy over Ravenclaw's defeat.

And so, she had simply implied to Ron that she and Dean were dating. Immediately, she'd sent Dean an owl warning about a possible Howler and apologized that she had so inconsiderately used him to rile her brother. Dean had replied that he didn't mind one single bit, and did she want to elaborate and turn it into a joke? Seeing Ginny's name in Dean's handwriting had certainly annoyed Ron and resulted in a very strongly worded letter. Dean had laughed.

King's Cross the following September had been tense, but Ginny had diffused the situation slightly by sitting with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Harry hadn't spoken much, but he had seemed grateful not to be alone when Ron and Hermione had to carry through their prefect duties and had even smirked when she'd reminded him of visiting Malfoy about her little bogey hex.

But once at Hogwarts, Ginny was swept up in her and Dean's little prank. Dark eyes bright, he'd sat beside her through the Sorting and dinner, leaning close to whisper casual comments in her ears that Ron would surely take the wrong way. She had been pulled between drawing the haunted look from Harry's vacant eyes and making Ron's face turn red.

Within the first week, word had gotten round that she and Dean were a couple. Since she liked Dean, she didn't mind spending time with him to keep up the roost, but it also meant less time spent with Harry, who she was also getting closer to. Eventually, she asked Dean if they could drop the joke and simply be friends, saying they'd mutually agreed to break off the romance.

As Ginny crossed the street towards the Leaky Cauldron, she felt her stomach flip slightly. Her relationship with Dean hadn't been completely unfelt, and she would be a downright liar if she claimed otherwise.

Despite the entire joke, Ginny had found herself somewhat attracted to Dean. She liked Dean and enjoyed having lively conversations with him while they were "sneaking out to snog." However, somewhere in the antics, she had found herself wondering what it would be like to _not _simply pretend to be a couple. Dean had hinted that he wanted to be so, but Ginny had hinted straight back that she didn't. Even though there had been one night—the night Alyson had caught them in the broom cupboard—Ginny had wanted to end it on terms that she liked him too much to use him to make a point. Miraculously, Dean had understood, and they had parted on good terms and remained friends.

Life had just gotten too confusing.

__

And it still is, Ginny thought as she opened the door to the Leaky Cauldron.

A blast of raucous noise assaulted her. Friday afternoon, pay day, and everyone seemed to want to spend their galleons at the pub. Thin clouds of multi-colored smoke drifted over the pointed, floppy, and starch hats. Ginny squinted in the dim lighting, trying to make sense of the shifting, laughing throng. A gaggle of gossiping witches were pouring over the new issue of _Witch Weekly_, directly blocking Ginny's access to the rest of the crowded room.

"Excuse me!" Ginny called as politely as she could. Not a single witch turned her head. Rolling her eyes, Ginny pulled out her wand and whispered, "_Mobilicorpus!_"

"Oh my!" a witch in purple robes exclaimed, but she was pointing to something on the glossy page.

"Must be absorbing," Ginny muttered as she set the witches down. Their feet had barely left the floor, but now a narrow path allowed Ginny to merge into the crowd and weave her way towards the bar, where she might be able to spot Dean.

She spotted him at the end of the bar, talking to Lavender Brown, who was gesticulating wildly and stood out against the professional robes in salmon pink. Dean Thomas had a vaguely attentive frown on his face, and he nodded every so often, but he clearly wasn't really listening. Somehow, leaning against the bar in a burgundy jumper and dark trousers, he looked taller than Ginny remembered . . . and older. By now he was probably twenty, or at least nearly there—Ginny was horrible at birth dates—but she had last seen him at eighteen and optimistic with the war's end and an apprenticeship with a cartoonist for the _Quibbler._

"Excuse me, sorry," Ginny said again, trying to make her way between three twenty-something wizards who seemed to be eyeing Lavender's startling assemblage. When none turned, she let out a huff and said loudly, "_Pardon my intrusion!"_

"Eh?" the sandy-haired one turned and looked down. His blue eyes swept over her and he smiled. "What's that, lass?"

Ginny suppressed an eye roll. "May I get through, please?"

"Sure, love."

"Thanks." Ginny squeezed through, vaguely recalling that she should have recognized whoever he was. Clearly, he hadn't recognized her. Shrugging, she sidled past another cluster of wizards, and then she was just behind Dean.

" . . . You think I'm right, right Dean?" Lavender was pouting, tapping her long, polished nails against her empty drink glass. "Because I _know_ I'm right. I let him off for a year, because he said he wanted to 'explore his options'—which, I may add, just shows what a true git he really is!—and I've waited patiently for him to come around—but he _hasn't!_"

Ginny frowned at Lavender's contorted face. Obviously, she was talking about Seamus, but whatever point the older girl was making was lost on Ginny. Dean shifted on his feet, turned his head, and caught Ginny out of the corner of his eye.

"Ginny!" he exclaimed, sounding incredibly relieved as he turned without regard for Lavender. His eyes widened and swept over her, and his eyebrows rose as his mouth stretched into a wide grin. "Blimey, it's been ages."

"Hey, Dean," she smiled, feeling a little embarrassed.

"Ginny Weasley?" said Lavender, not bothering to wipe her disgruntled pout off her face as she peered around Dean's shoulder. She arched a brow. "You look . . . different."

"You look great," Dean said loudly, rolling his eyes in Lavender's direction.

"Thanks." Ginny felt the threat of a blush coming, but quickly ordered her blood to travel to her head in an orderly fashion. Alyson, being the helpful, generous friend that she was, had arrested Ginny for a serious, harried fashion and make-up session. Ginny had to admit that she'd liked the result. Alyson termed her look "slightly Gothic, but more reminiscent of the fantastic." Whatever that meant.

Ginny wore a deep blue medieval-style top that opened just below the elbows into flowing sleeves, a gothic black skirt, and chunky lace-up boots that had been charmed for comfort. The top was tighter than what Ginny was used to, but the assemblage seemed to accentuate her curves, making her feel less scrawny and more womanly. Alyson had advised she leave her hair down, but she'd braided a small, thin braid amongst the thick mass of copper and auburn. For make-up, Ginny had taken a daring step—for one, she'd actually put it on, and two, it was darker, heavier than she'd ever imagined herself wearing. Because she was too pale for black, Alyson had raced off for a more natural brown to line Ginny's eye and coat her lashes. Finally, her lips had been painted with Madam Valentine's No-Rub, Long-Lasting Rouge in darker-than-natural-but-not-pink-or-red-or-purple-shade that Ginny wasn't quite sure what to call, but she liked it.

All in all, Ginny didn't quite look or feel like herself, but it felt exhilarating. She felt attractive but not over-the-top, and this darker look felt somewhat liberating.

"I suppose," Lavender said loudly, offensively, "that you're not going to stay and listen to my problems, are you, Dean?"

Dean looked as if he wanted to cheerily say "pretty much!" but he scratched the back of his neck and said, "Gee, Lav, maybe you should just talk to Seamus about it. I can't really do anything about it, you know."

"I see." Lavender pressed her lips together. She looked at Ginny with a forced smile. "Sorry, I'm just going through a crisis right now. You know how it is with men."

"Yeah. Sure." No, she really didn't know how it was with men.

"What have you been up to since Hogwarts? How does the castle look?" Lavender wanted to know.

"Oh, well. It looks pretty much the same," said Ginny, feeling sad but confident on this subject. She had never really hit it off with the girls in that year, except for Hermione. "You can't really tell all that much what it looked like afterwards. Just a few differences here and there. The Great Hall's ceiling isn't quite the same, since students worked on it."

"Yeah," Lavender sighed, looking truly sorry. "All the best Charmers were needed for the Ministry and Castlereigh." She suddenly perked up. "Are you living in Castlereigh?"

Ginny shook her head. "No, Muggle London had a better rate for me."

Dean, who had looked interested in the conversation, glanced at his watch. "Hey, Gin, you want to head out? I sort of told my uncle we'd be there around four."

"Sure. Bye, Lavender," Ginny said, hoping she didn't sound as relieved as she felt. After Dean said his own good-bye, he put a hand on her elbow as they tried to wrestle their way through the throng.

Daybreak and fresher air broke as they closed the door behind them and stood in the street, blinking. Dean dropped his hand and squinted up at the sky, then dropped his chin and grinned happily at Ginny. "Well, I'm glad to be out of _that_."

Ginny smirked and shook her head. "Had I known, I would have gotten here faster. How long were you stuck with her?"

"Oh, just twenty minutes." Dean shrugged his shoulders. "It was enough."

Ginny felt his eyes sweep over her again, but she pretended not to notice. Dean hadn't really kept it secret he thought she was pretty, but he had also respected her enough not to make a compliment seem necessary.

"So, what are we doing, then?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. Well, we'll stop over at The Sipper—my uncle and aunt's coffee shop—but there's a couple of things to see on the way. It's near Camden, have you been there?"

"No, but I've heard of it."

"Well, then," said Dean, offering an elbow. "Shall we?"

Something about walking the Muggle streets of London with a long-time-no-see friend revived some of what had lain dormant in Ginny. Dean kept up a steady conversation without actually seeming like he was trying to fill in the silence, and bounced back and forth between reminiscing about the past and speculating about the future. They talked of Ginny's seventh year and reconstruction, Dean's apprenticeship with _The Quibbler_'s comic strip and how he didn't think it was getting him anywhere, how Hermione and Ron seemed to have found active, important roles in the wizard world, Ginny's father's new position of regulating relations between Muggles and wizards, and what it was like living in the Muggle world.

"It's not been quite two weeks," Ginny said, as she caressed a silk scarf in an open shop in the Camden marketplace (which they had Apparated to), "so I can't really say much—but I do like it. Being independent, not having Mum nagging me about, well, everything." She wrinkled her nose at the price, and then sighed. "It's _money_ that nags me now. We've always been poor, but it didn't really bother me."

"Can you get more hours at Flourish and Blotts?" Dean asked, trying on a cabbie cap.

"No. Mr. Whitworth's given me all he can. Mr. Crackenthorpe's been giving him trouble for it."

Dean wore a thoughtful frown on his face, but didn't respond for a while. "Is there something else you can do? You've got plenty of O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s to get a good job."

__

Ah, I knew this would come, Ginny thought, pretending to study a deep, crimson wash of a skirt. "I'm not really aiming for a specific career," she said, hoping it would suffice. She looked up from the skirt and gazed out at the busy walkway, which was bustling with shoppers carrying colorful bags. Four teenage Muggle girls were trying on stylish but skimpy tops that Ginny's mother would have deemed "bizarre and disgraceful." One tall girl wore large silver hoops from her earlobes, a leather cap over her long blonde hair, and high-heeled boots. The girl tossed back her head with loud, carefree laughter. She didn't seem too concerned about finding a career.

"Nothing at all?" Dean asked curiously.

Ginny tried not to squirm. "Well, I'm sort of like you. You say you're not getting anywhere at _The Quibbler_."

Dean frowned. "I would, if Rogers just declared me able. And it doesn't help that the magazine believes there's no need for an additional strip."

"Exactly. I can't really have my career until I'm declared able." _Of course, that means I have to actually submit something . . ._ "But you," Ginny went on, "can find somewhere else. Why not the Quidditch League? Advertising, paraphernalia, or a comic on one of the teams?"

Dean looked thoughtful. "Well . . . maybe, but I don't really want to be in advertising."

"Illustration, then? In books, I mean."

"I'll think about it," Dean smiled, putting an arm around her shoulders as they stepped into the thoroughfare. "See? I should have looked you up sooner. You've got a shot in career counseling, you do."

"Mum couldn't disagree more," Ginny muttered derisively. But she wasn't bothered for the moment. All in all, she was having a rather nice time. Dean didn't want to talk too much about the war and reconstruction, which was fine by Ginny, and he didn't seem to be trying to measure her behavior like everyone else. "So," she said as they crossed over a small stone bridge, "where's your family's café?"

Ginny immediately fell in love with The Sipper.

She wasn't sure if it was the welcoming, warm aroma of coffee, baking buns, and cooling chocolate, or the soothing, cozy atmosphere. Old, worn, but polished beams crisscrossed the ceiling, where old-fashioned lantern lights hung down over every small, round table. The offset of the "lodge" appearance was the gray-speckled tile flooring and the modern tabletops, not to mention the counter and display case, which housed delicious, fattening pastries with fillings and icing. Muggles in business and casual clothing dotted the cushion-seated chairs, their tables cluttered with papers, cups of coffee or tea, and briefcases. Each seemed to have the intention of staying all through tea, and possibly, into the evening.

"What do think?" Dean asked quietly.

Ginny smiled. "This is great. I didn't think it'd be so quiet, though. I've passed dozens of these places before, and they're madhouses."

"Oh, Uncle Dan and Aunt Maggie try to keep the business manageable," said Dean, moving towards the counter. Ginny could see a woman in a white shirt and dark trousers with a green apron bent over, obviously struggling with something in her arms. "Hey, Maggie," Dean called, leaning his elbows on the counter.

"Oh!" Maggie Thomas startled and whirled around, dropping whatever had been in her arms on the floor. She reminded Ginny instantly of her mother, despite her hair being a nut brown streaked with gray and her eyes a soft blue. She was flushed from exertion, and had something white and powdery on her left cheek. "Dean!" she exclaimed, bending down to pick up what she'd dropped. "Get this for me, will you? Arthritis, you know. I'd have asked Ben or Cynthia to do it, but they're making mocha in the back."

"Sure." Dean took the silver bag, glanced back at the Muggles who were engrossed in their documents and computers, and pulled out his wand. _"Diffindo."_ A neat, clean cut sliced across the top of the bag, and Ginny instantly smelled coffee beans.

"You're such a show off," Maggie chided good-naturedly as she accepted the bag. She turned to Ginny and smiled. "And who are you?"

"Ginny Weasley."

"Are you . . . you know?"

"Yes."

"Well, lovely to meet you," Maggie smiled again. "What can I get you two?" she asked, turning to a tall, cylindrical object behind her.

"The usual," said Dean, moving over to the bakery case.

Ginny gazed up at the menu board, a white surface with marker-in items and prices. She had never had much coffee, except for the creamy, sugary mixtures in Hogsmeade. The drinks with chocolate or caramel or cinnamon in them had been her favorites. Biting her lip, Ginny looked down the list, wishing that she knew what macchiato was. _Well, you can't really go wrong with chocolate, _Ginny reasoned, her eyes falling on 'mocha latte'.

When Ginny reached into her purse to pay (she had a bit of Muggle change, just in case), Dean shook his head, ordered two scones, one blueberry and one cinnamon, and smiled. "My treat."

Ginny rolled her eyes, but didn't argue. Ron had always been the one resentful of people giving them "charity" just because they were poor. Ginny didn't mind it so much, because she knew her friends weren't trying to be philanthropists. Certainly, Fred and George weren't bothered by it, either. And, besides, she would pick up the tab some other time.

When they'd seated, Dean leaned forward conspiratorially. "I've got an idea."


	4. A Better Burger

**_A/N: Alrighty, here's another chapter. Thanks again for reviewing! _****_J_****__**

****

****

****

**Chapter Four**

_"A Better Burger"_

"What do you mean you're taking a Muggle job?!"

"Mum! You don't have to shout—"

"I'm not shouting!" Ginny's mother yelled, hands on her hips. "I'm simply asking why in all of England you want to take a _Muggle_'_s_ job when you are perfectly capable of something in the Ministry or—"

Ginny tuned out her mother's tirade as she carefully set plates dating five Weasley generations back on the table. It was Saturday, nearly noon, and things at The Burrow were just as she'd expected them to be. Fred and George were being purposefully late and Ron and Hermione were pretending to be deaf as they set the dishes heaping of steaming food onto the center of the table.

" . . . You have more than enough N.E.W.T.'s to find a good job in the wizarding world! Oh, your father will be thrilled, surely!"

"I'm still working at Flourish and Blotts, Mum," Ginny reminded her. She quickly rushed on as her mother took a deep breath. "I _know_ it isn't a career or something important or brilliant like everyone else has, but that's _fine_. I don't plan to do it forever. And I need the money, so Dean's family is being a really big help."

Molly's eyes lit up for an instant and then narrowed shrewdly. "Dean Thomas? Are you seeing him?"

Ginny suppressed an eye-roll. "No. We're just friends."

Ron grunted twice—the second for Hermione elbowing him sharply in the ribs. "Can never be sure 'bout that," he muttered under his breath.

"You brought it upon yourself, you twit," Ginny retorted.

Ron scowled. He was as tall and lean as ever, and Ginny was sure he had even more freckles than usual. Training to be a strategic apprehension wizard, Ron was also undergoing a grueling but less in-depth and life-threatening version of Auror's training. To her, at least, he still seemed to be the big, clumsy oaf, but Hermione's secretive confessional (which Ginny would rather not hear) stated that her brother was fit and as handsome as ever. If you liked long-nosed, pink-eared prats, Ginny decided.

"Brought what?" Molly demanded, darting 'the look' between her youngest offspring.

"Nothing," they said at once.

Their mother pursed her lips, but then opened her mouth to continue her rant. However, just then, Arthur Weasley came in from the garage, whistling happily until he noticed the only two Weasley females glaring at one another.

"Arthur," said Molly breathlessly, obviously trying to appear calm. "You should be very pleased with your daughter."

Arthur glanced uncertainly between Molly and Ginny, one reddish eyebrow raised. "Yes?"

"Mum's in a strop because I got a job in a Muggle café."

"Really? That's _brilliant_, Pumpkin!"

Molly threw her hands in the air in surrender and turned around to tend to the pot roast. Ginny tried to answer her father's rapid-fire questions, feeling gratified that at least _he_ thought it was great. Fred and George would probably harass her to test their products on unsuspecting Muggles. Ron shrugged uninterestedly and sat down at his usual chair, but then jumped back up to pull one out for Hermione. Ginny didn't miss the pleased, affectionate smile on her friend's face, and judging by the angle of her arm, she had a hand on Ron's knee.

Ginny stifled a snort. Ron was twenty and still turned pink.

"Well, where could those boys be?" Molly muttered as she set the large pot roast at the head of the table.

_Snap! Snap!_

"What?" exclaimed Fred, appearing suddenly beside his brother. "The family started without us?!"

It was nearly two and Ginny was trying hard to find her escape as she sat in her old rocker in the living room. Her mother seemed bent on keeping everyone at the Burrow as long as possible—"No one is working today, are they? I don't see why you all need to hurry off!" Fred and George tried to rationalize that they should check on their new employees, but to no avail.

Talk had centered on Hogwarts. Hermione's report was positive: the school was functioning well, nearly fully staffed, and although the enrollment was only at fifty percent, she expected it would progressively grow.

"Are you going to teach?" Molly asked, busily knitting what looked suspiciously like a scarlet jumper with a golden H in the middle.

Hermione shook her head. "I love working for the school, and I might teach someday, but right now I want to keep my options open. I'd be a better teacher if I had more knowledge of the world outside of Hogwarts." She smiled at Ginny; obviously she sided with Ginny's argument for not settling instantly in one career. "After this term, I'm handing the liaison responsibility over to another," Hermione continued, brushing her still-bushy curls out of her eyes. "I'm still trying to decide the next step."

Ginny rocked back slowly, thinking how mature and adult Hermione looked. Although her older friend was not wearing her usual sensible work robes, she was neat and comfortable in khaki pants and navy jumper. Her hair was mostly swept back into a loose braid, but shorter bits of curl had escaped and were brushing her temples. What Ginny noticed most, however, was not Hermione's clothes, but her mannerism. She was more careful with her speech when she got excited and didn't become nearly so breathless and flushed.

And—Ginny noted with a slight smirk—she was more open about her feelings for Ron. Before, she had been embarrassed to lean against him or hold his hand in view of others. Now, however, she looked quite comfortable leaning against Ron on the sinking sofa, her left hand in his, his arm around her shoulders.

"Well, I'm sure you'll do fine, whatever you decide," Molly was saying, drawing Ginny out of her observations. "As long as you have a _goal_—"

"Funny," muttered George from the hearthrug, "she never seemed to say that to us, did she, Fred?"

"I believe not," answered Fred, looking highly offended. "And I must say, our goals were _quite_ ambitious—"

"And _The Daily Prophet_'s given us spec-_tac_-ular reviews, I may add."

"You're doing very well, boys," Arthur grinned, not seeing his wife's pursed lips. "We're all proud of you."

Before the conversation could turn from the twins to Ginny's apparent lack of future aspiration, a familiar white owl tapped at the window.

"Hedwig!" Ron cried, nearly dumping Hermione on the floor as he raced to the window. At once, everyone was shifting restlessly, all eyes averted to the snowy owl as she swooped gracefully into the room. Ron immediately held out his arm, and Hedwig perched neatly, blinking her amber eyes.

Ginny felt a sickening dread in the pit of her stomach as Ron ripped open the letter. Hedwig swooped off to use Errol's tray. She couldn't get excited over any letter from Harry, especially since it wouldn't be addressed to her. Why would it?

"Well, what does it say?" Molly demanded. Her knitting lay untouched in her lap, her hands clasped together.

"Hold on, hold on—it's addressed to me, you know," Ron muttered, still standing in the center of the room.

"No," Fred corrected, snatching the torn, dropped envelope. "It's addressed to Ron WeasleyandWeasley_ Family._ Last time I checked, we were part of the family."

"Yes, but my name was on it _first_."

"Prat."

"Fred! Go on, Ron, dear."

"Yes, do go on, Ronniekins."

Ron glared furiously at Fred, then cleared his throat. "Alright. He doesn't say much, though."

"Well, it _is_ Harry," George shrugged. He was laying a hand very gingerly over his blue spikes, as if testing the reliability of the incredibly stiff gel.

"Shut up. Anyway—he's been in America the past couple of weeks—"

"Don't paraphrase!" George chided, kicking Ron's ankle. "Then we'll all have to read it ourselves—including the embarrassing bits where he teases you about Hermione." He grinned cheekily at the former Head Girl.

Ginny was certain she heard Ron call George a git under his breath, but since her mother didn't scream, it might have been her imagination. When Ron cleared her throat again, she felt her chest tighten. She didn't want to be here to listen to Harry's impersonal, faux-cheerful words. But she would stay, because she wanted to know where he was, what he was doing, and maybe—why did she hope for this?—he might actually have something to say to her.

_"Dear Ron and everyone else,"_ Ron began to read. _"I'm currently in __America__, and probably will be for most of the month. After that, I haven't decided yet. __America__'s all right. Really big—"_

"Really big?" Fred snorted. "Hey, Hermione, maybe you should introduce geography to Hogwarts, I think the young pupils could need it."

_"—but kind of cool,"_ Ron continued loudly. _"The wizarding population is still mostly in __New England__ and along the East Coast, but there are some schools in the __Midwest__, South, and West Coast. Apparently they often disguise themselves as private prep schools, and the Muggles can't tell the difference. Hermione, I'm sure you know all this, or will go look it up now."_ Ron paused and grinned at his girlfriend.

"Oh, just go on," Hermione huffed.

_"It's weird traveling over here. Many wizards use Muggle transportation, because there are problems with Muggles spotting them. Tabloids usually headline any flying cars or portkey toilets. And every state is different—accent, food, some laws, land, mottos, and license plates—it's sometimes confusing. They're sort of like their own little countries allied together._

_"Hamburgers are great here. Not like what we tried at that McDonald's last summer. The people I stayed with in __Iowa__ grilled out a lot. McDonald's is still gross, though. The cows are unnerving—they stare and follow you around._

_"__New York__ and __L.A.__ are incredible. Wizards and witches don't bother with worrying about Muggles seeing them. You could do obvious magic in Lockhart's ugly robes, and no one would care. They'll just think it's some sort of magician's stunt, or David Blaine (I'm not sure what he is). _

_"I've been playing some Quidditch in intramurals. It's not as big over here as in __England__, but I've been told it's growing. Americans have their own version of it, but mostly play Quodpot._

_"How're things? I want to subscribe to the Daily Prophet, but it's not practical when I don't have a permanent address, and Remus didn't want anyone over there tracing where the owls go. Has Hogwarts started fully?_

_"Miss all of you,_

_Harry."_

"I," sniffed Fred, "happen to _like_ McDonald's."

"I always said Harry was an excellent Seeker," George agreed, "but definitely a terrible food critic."

It was nearly teatime when Ginny finally returned to Barslow Hall. She wanted nothing more than to run a hot bath and curl up with a good book. The lighter mood Dean's proposition had put her in was gone in the face of Harry's letter. She had gotten exactly what she'd expected, but it was no comfort. As much as it would pain her, she wanted to hear from Harry truly, not just some generalized letter.

But she couldn't just stay in tonight. She had a late Quidditch practice in Hampstead Heath, and then Alyson was dragging her out with her cousin, Joe, and someone she'd bumped into during her interview. And then, starting Wednesday, Ginny would be working at The Sipper and Flourish and Blotts, playing Quidditch, and trying to make progress as a writer.

Life, she had a feeling as she turned the key, was about to change.


	5. Halloween

Chapter Five

"Halloween" 

"No, I said _two_ shots of espresso, not three!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'll remake it!"

"You wouldn't have to if you did it right the first time."

"Yessir, sorry, sir."

Ginny glared across the café floor at the Muggle who was tapping his fingers impatiently as Sophia, the newest addition to The Sipper, shakily pumped mocha and caramel into a cup. The seventeen-year-old's brown hair was slipping from her short ponytail and coffee stains splashed her white blouse and black apron. As the espresso machine began to bleep plaintively and the Muggle began sighing loudly, Ginny had every intention in mind to stomp over and clearly, distinctly, and ever-so-courteously call him a wanker.

"How much whip cream, sir?" Sophia asked breathlessly as she poured dark brown beans into the espresso machine.

"_No_ whip cream."

"Right. Yes." Sophia's eyes swept the room and found Ginny. She looked helpless and panicked, and Ginny wanted badly to help her, but she was on her break, and Maggie had distinctly instructed everyone that Sophia needed to learn to cope better. Besides, Benjamin was in the back, probably just finishing the cookie sheets for the oven.

"Ignore him," Ginny mouthed, hoping she looked encouraging. What else could she do? Maggie wouldn't be happy to discover Ginny had called a customer a wanker, even if he deserved it.

Sophia did not look calmer, but she did return to her flighty task of finishing the double-shot. "Here you are, sir," she tried to say cheerfully, but her voice quaked.

The Muggle grunted and quickly exited the shop, muttering something about wanting Starbucks.

"What did I miss?" Benjamin Straton sang cheerily as he came through the swinging doors from the backroom. He was balancing a large cookie sheet on each hand, easily raising his arms to pass over Sophia's head.

"Only my third panic attack of the day," Sophia sighed mournfully.

"Ah, now, buck up. It's only three." Benjamin began sliding the freshly baked cookies onto their platters. "You're not nearly up to your usual."

Ginny felt a smile tug at her lips, shook her head, and took a sip of her chai tea. Then, brushing stray wisps of hair from her eyes, she returned to the notebook that lay out in front of her. She stared at her inconsistent scrawl, which seemed to alter between sharp and slanted, round and curved, and something not quite cursive. A character description of Sophia filled the top half of the lined page, but as Ginny's eyes flickered back to the counter, where Benjamin was nonchalantly cleaning Sophia's mess while quietly chatting, she had the sudden urge to elaborate and delve deeper.

As the blue-ink tip of her pen pressed onto the paper, Ginny felt a small twinge of guilt. Speculating over people and writing about them had become her past-time at the café during breaks. It was especially fun with the regulars: Ms. Crockford always came on Tuesdays and Thursdays with a thick library book; Alfred revealed nothing about himself and always wore a faded gray jumper; Wynette Benning wore blue and had stickers all over her laptop computer, which she brought on Sundays with her newspaper. Sitting quietly at a corner table, Ginny would observe these people and let her imagination take hold. It brought her back to her first days of writing.

"Come on," Benjamin said quietly, motioning Sophia to come closer. "I'll show you how to make my secret drink."

"The Benjamihma?"

Ginny kept her eyes averted, in case either of her co-workers glanced her way. But she couldn't resist a peek. Tall, strawberry blonde Ben was standing behind Sophia's petite form, calmly directing her which syrups and shots to mix. The girl bit her lip in concentration, and a soft blush appeared on her cheeks. Instantly, Ginny began to write, feeling as if she were intruding, but unable to stop herself.

Most of the time, her speculating developed into fictitious scenarios, and the characters separated themselves from real life. However, Ginny highly doubted that too many people would appreciate her journal entries.

When Sophia giggled, Ginny couldn't help but look up. She felt a lump form in her throat as Benjamin teasingly wiped the whip cream off Sophia's shoulder. Both of them looked so happy, so at ease . . . Ben was her age, Sophia just a year younger, but Ginny felt so much older. Like a spinster watching her debutante niece flushing with excitement for an enchanted evening.

_I've been reading too many Muggle books_, Ginny chided silently, giving her head a shake.

She sighed and studied the new paragraph. She didn't feel like writing about Ben and Sophia anymore. Why should she? It wasn't as if she had the right to, anyway. Frowning, Ginny flipped over her notebook and flipped back several pages. She chewed the end of her pencil thoughtfully, ignoring the metallic tang.

It was the thirtieth of October. She'd been working at The Sipper, playing Quidditch on the Ashwinders, and living in London for nearly two months now. Although her mother wouldn't agree, she felt somewhat settled now, even if the restlessness and desperate urge to break away constantly plagued her. She had a routine and was busy enough that she could collapse into bed, exhausted, and fall asleep within an hour after reading a book or scribbling in her journals. Working two jobs was helping with the financial situation as well, and for the first time in her life, Ginny didn't feel poor. She was scrupulous with her money and saved, but she had a little extra spending money for the two times she actually went shopping with Alyson in Camden. Dean had taken her out twice to dinner and a movie, but she wouldn't call it dating. Due to her busier schedule, she had also managed to wriggle out of Saturday lunches at the Burrow.

Ginny glanced down again at the scribbled passages.

"Excellent! Couldn't have made it better myself."

"Oh, you're just saying that."

"No, really. It's upsetting. Someone else can make my secret drink better than me!"

"Shut up!"

A wistful sigh escaped her. Her break was nearly over and she would have two more hours of work.

The door chimed again, distracting Ginny from where her thoughts were about to lead. An elderly couple carrying shopping bags shuffled in, looking slightly haggard and in need of caffeine. Ben and Sophia's teasing quieted; there was a clearing of throats, and then the hiss of the espresso machine. Ginny vaguely recognized the customers, both graying, but could not put a name to them. Instead of writing a small entry, she doodled thoughtfully in the margin, her eyes seeing without really reading what was written.

After the first miserable week in September, Ginny had decided she was truly tired of pretending to be perfectly all right. It seemed pointless to bother, what with her mother, George, and Alyson all but saying they knew perfectly well she wasn't happy. Alyson's makeover had enchanted Ginny; it was darker, more daring, and definitely different. Working and living in the Muggle world, Ginny could separate herself from the darkness that had surrounded her in the wizard world. She lived in two different worlds, but had found a sort of compromise between them.

In the Muggle world, no one knew her past, and she felt freer to be herself. Alyson said her look was edgier and mysterious, but Ginny didn't mind. She could shake her melancholy, embrace dry wit and sarcasm, but also just be _normal_ without feeling like she was putting on a show. As a witch, she had given up appearing to be fine, but neither did she elaborate on it. Dramatics were not for her. Since she hadn't seen much of her family lately, they didn't really notice; Fred and George would drop comments every now and then, but she knew they wouldn't bother their mother, and Ron was simply too busy with Hermione and his training.

Not making an enormous effort to hide her true self somehow made it easier. No one commented on it. She didn't have to struggle now.

"Ginny!" Benjamin called. "Your siesta is over, sweet pea!"

"May I remind you that I am _not_ a vegetable?" answered Ginny, earning a chuckle from Mr. Farges, who was particularly fond of Oscar Wilde. The man tipped his floppy wool cap to her and scratched his scruffy chin. She smiled at him and scooped up her notebook, pen, and teacup.

"You could," said Ben as she weaved through the scattered tables, "but it won't do any good."

"Prat." Ginny pushed through the double-doors to the little cubbyhole full of her things and deposited her notebook. She refastened her hair with a claw-clip, tied her apron around her waist, and returned to the counter. Sophia was still blushing under Ben's flirtations. Ginny smirked, remembering how disgruntled Ben, a nineteen-year-old university student, had been frustrated with her gentle but firm rebukes. Oh, she'd flirt a bit, but she wasn't serious.

"Hey, Gin, any plans for tomorrow?" Ben asked. "The campus is hosting a party, costume and everything. The American exchange students have been lobbying for one. It's huge over there, Halloween."

"Oh, yeah?" Ginny grabbed a rag to wipe the tables down. "It was big at my old school. I'm just going out with a couple of friends."

"Cool. Leaving already, Sophie? . . ."

Benjamin turned away, and Ginny was glad. She didn't want him to see her shudder. Tomorrow was Halloween. She was all too eager to find something to occupy her mind, to help her forget that wonderful night.

That night Harry kissed her.

"Hello, Joe. Can I stay awhile?"

"Yeah, sure," Joe Parsons said even as Ginny tiredly shuffled through the door. "Have a seat," he added as she flopped onto his brown, torn leather couch. "Rough day?"

"Same as usual," Ginny sighed, closing her eyes and letting her body slouch into the cushy, sinking furniture. She felt and heard magazines slide into her thigh, but didn't bother pushing them away. Listening to the sound of Joe's footsteps and the squeaking of his computer chair, Ginny relaxed into her little sanctuary. A wry smile turned her mouth: how odd it was to find sanctuary in her roommate's cousin's flat.

The soft but distinct clicking of computer keys filled the silence, and Ginny let out another sigh and stretched. After another minute, she opened her eyes and surveyed the wreckage around her. Joe was a twenty-year-old with a Muggle teen's dream job and it showed. Being a 'computer nerd' as Alyson called him, Joe had managed to become a computer programmer for the gaming industry. At first, Ginny had been at a complete loss, but after meeting Joe and listening to his endless babble (and seeing his apartment), she had a fair idea. Basically, Joe was paid a comfortable sum of money to play computer games, find their problems, fix them, and rate them. Had Ron or the twins been Muggles, they would have been drooling at the very idea of it.

Ginny pushed away the _Gamer_ magazines but didn't sit up. She shook her head at the haphazard boxes that held cartridges, CDs, and whatever else a computer game specialist needed. Along with games, Joe was a music enthusiast, and so Ginny was constantly watching where she stepped, so as not to crunch a plastic case under her heel.

"Oh, bugger," Joe swore softly as his computer let out a loud buzz and the screen exploded into digital flames.

"Engulfed in Computerized Flames of Doom again?" snorted Ginny.

"Well, your presence is so distracting."

"Huh." Ginny smiled and slid off the couch to rummage through the mess of CDs on the floor. She knew Joe was grinning.

"Oh, yeah, I'd just finished one before you came in." Joe swiveled around in his chair and pushed across his uncarpeted floor. "Try Violent Femmes," he suggested, pointing his green-socked toe at a white CD cover under Cake's Fashion Nugget. "They're grungier and not so depressing—"

"Hey, it's _your_ fault," Ginny protested, examining the album. "You're the one who introduced me to this stuff." She uncurled her legs, careful not to trip over her flowing broomstick skirt, and went to the rather impressive black sound system. Two seconds after she hit play, guitar, drum, and vocals blasted into the flat. Quickly, she turned the volume down a few notches and then scooted back to listen.

"They've got some attitude," said Joe, sifting through his CD collection and setting a couple aside for Ginny. "Not as tuney as Green Day or the Goo Goo Dolls, but I like them. Sort of like Oasis, I guess."

Ginny nodded absently to the music as she looked through Joe's suggestions, watching him out of the corner of her eye. When Alyson had called her cousin a nerd, Ginny had expected to find someone awkward like Neville had been, or at least, quiet and reserved without much for physical attraction. Joe Parson definitely wasn't dorky-looking, but neither was he strikingly handsome. Average-height with brown hair and hazel eyes, Joe was cute without a lasting impression of being so. What impression he did leave was of someone relaxed and happy with life.

Perhaps, Ginny thought, that was why she had taken to stopping by after work or on a spare afternoon. He was her emotional opposite and it soothed her.

"You still smell like coffee," teased Joe when he caught her eye.

"I've been told it's a _good_ smell," Ginny scoffed, shifting her legs under her.

Joe raised an eyebrow and grinned slyly. "And who said this, may I enquire?"

"Dean, and you've asked me this before." Avoiding his gaze, she studied the cover of Oasis's _What's the Story Morning Glory_. She'd have to ask to borrow it . . . again.

"Hmm." His computer beeped. Apparently whatever he had been loading was now complete. "Try the Katies after this," he called.

Ginny merely nodded and returned to her place on the couch. The stereo had ceased with its loud vibrating and had switched to a slower, wistful song. She closed her eyes, feeling all of her aching wash over her in one warm, heavy wave. Every sad song seemed to be sung for her, but instead of compensating through upbeat tunes, she was compelled to live her worst bouts through mournful lyrics. But once a sad song was finished, she did feel relief in something snappy and fast.

"You're rather contemplative today," Joe said quietly. "You're wearing that sort of maroony-purple lipstick."

Ginny closed her eyes again. Song number 3, _All I Want_, definitely was hitting her hard. "Tomorrow's Halloween," she mumbled. "And then the next day is November first."

"I see you know your calendar."

Ginny tried to muster a laugh, but she simply couldn't. Her chest was tightening up, and nothing about Joe's ridiculous assemblage of blasting computer games could ease it. She wanted to cry, wanted to scream, but most of all, she wanted _him_.

"Hey," Joe said softly. Ginny sensed him approach, and then the sofa sank a little more, and she agreeably laid her head on his shoulder as his arm came around her. "You look like you need a hug."

She just nodded, incapable of speech.

After awhile Joe turned on the television.

_It was just after midnight, but Ginny wasn't aware of the time. All was cozy in the quiet, nearly empty common room, and the fire crackled merrily, casting a warm glow across the scarlet cushions and lumpy chairs. Ginny felt content and somewhat sleepy as she lounged lazily on the couch, picking out the stuffing and nudging Harry's side with her foot. Ron and Hermione had both just decided they should 'sleep.' Although she could barely keep her eyes open, Ginny didn't want to leave her comfy position on the couch or Harry, who had been in the best of moods in a long time._

"_Stop that," Harry scolded teasingly, snatching her foot and pushing it away. He was still wearing that crooked, subtle smile he'd been wearing all through the Halloween feast. "I happen to know Weasley feet smell."_

"_Ron's feet, you mean." Ginny nudged him again. "I don't know how Hermione can take it."_

_Harry grabbed her foot again, but this time held on, and poised his fingers threateningly close. "I haven't the mind to ask her, really." His eyes, glinting in the firelight, dropped down to her stockings, and then he gave her a wicked smirk. "What sort of socks are these, anyway?"_

"_Mum made them," Ginny shrugged, trying hard not to shiver as his fingertips brushed lightly over the red and gold stripes spotted with witches' hats. Why on earth was he touching her feet? Earlier he had brushed his fingertips through her hair. Lately Harry had seemed bent on avoiding physical contact, and Ginny wondered if his sudden change was from the butterbeers he'd had at the feast. Or maybe he was trying to push the darkness away by being playful._

"_They're funny," Harry decided, flicking his fingers just so; Ginny bit her tongue to keep from squealing. _

"_Want me to insult your socks, Potter?" said Ginny, pulling her foot back just as his eyes lit up. It wouldn't do for him to know she had ticklish feet (and sides and knees and neck). "How many times has Dobby darned your socks because of holes?"_

_Harry just shrugged and stretched an arm over the couch back. She watched as he tilted his head back, sighed, and closed his eyes. Worried he would revert to his pensive, inverted brooding, she sat up and leaned forward, this time nudging him with her hand._

"_Hey, guess what?" she said with a quick glance at her watch. "This was your first Halloween that something bad didn't happen."_

_Harry opened his eyes, raised his eyebrows, and smiled at her. "Yeah . . . I guess it is." He sat up and leaned toward her, pushing his glasses up his nose. The mischievous glint slipped into something thicker, darker, and Ginny was suddenly very aware how his arm almost curved around her along the sofa's back and how her knees bumped against his thigh. She shivered involuntarily at the brush of his fingertips at her knee._

"_Ginny."_

_He gazed at her, and she couldn't tell if his soft, hoarse voice had said her name in question or not. Harry leaned forward slightly, and her heart quickened, wondering, hoping . . . but then something struggled on his face, she'd seen it a dozen of times, and he said thickly, "Want to play chess?"_

"_Sure," she said, fighting disappointment. What did she expect?_

_Just as she turned her head to Summon their pieces, she felt him lurch, and something soft, warm, and wet pressed against the corner of her mouth. She froze. The pressure remained a moment more, hesitated, and then gently lifted. But she could feel his breath hotly on the spot that seemed to burn through her. Trembling, she barely turned her head towards the hovering presence of his mouth before she felt his lips slide tentatively over hers._

_Harry . . . She couldn't think, but she could feel. Slowly, the moist warmth of his lips thawed her, and she felt an indescribable confusion between joy, desire, disbelief, and fear. Just as his lips started to lift from hers, she parted her lips, not caring if she breathed in his breath or not. Gently, his lips parted, and suddenly Ginny was awakened._

_Unable to stop it, she moaned softly against his lips and felt him shudder._

"_Ginny," he whispered in her ear, his breath trailing from her mouth and across her cheek. She felt him suck in a breath, and wondered if she had just felt his lips brush her neck. Had he really just kissed her? She could still taste him on her lips . . ._

"_Harry," she breathed, wanting to confirm what had just happened but also fearing she would find it all her imagination._

_He pulled away slightly, but his fingertips brushed her cheek. Her heart pounded in anticipation for his mouth. Now she knew what that certain darkness in his eyes meant, the one look she couldn't read._

"_Ginny . . ." Harry trailed off and swallowed hard. "We . . . should go . . . you know . . ." He gestured awkwardly at the staircase to the dormitories._

_Ginny closed her eyes, feeling an overwhelming coldness wash over her. "I know," she whispered. She felt him kiss her forehead, his mouth lingering. _

_Then he was gone. Getting off the sofa, heading silently for his dormitory, away from her._

Tangled in her bed sheets and wrapped in darkness, Ginny buried her face in her pillow and cried quietly.

"Well, look at you!" Alyson whistled as Ginny emerged from her bedroom in her Halloween costume. "I don't know how Dean can keep his hands off you tonight."

"Shut up. I bet Colin will wet himself," Ginny retorted, gesturing at the slinky black dress Alyson had acquired. "I _still_ can't believe you picked him for your date."

"Why? Colin's a nice bloke. A bit enthusiastic sometimes, but I don't mind. It's Colin, after all." Alyson smoothed the thin fabric over her flat torso, her silver, manicured nails flashing in the light. She had a black Muggle version of a witch's hat adorned with silvery spider webs to complement her dress. A few years ago, several Muggle-born wizards and witches had decided to host a Halloween ball in a salute to the Muggle tradition of the holiday; basically, they decided on a costume ball. Apparently, it was popular with the younger magical population a year or two fresh out of Hogwarts.

"What's Colin going as?" Ginny asked, checking her image out in the long mirror.

She had settled on a medieval-style version of a witch that she had seen in a used costume shop near Camden. It was more promiscuous than anything she'd ever worn, with dropped shoulders, a low neckline, slashed sleeves, and a sheer torso. The fabric was made of mostly a deep purple silk with silver embroidery. Alyson had curled Ginny's long red locks into luscious, almost lazy curls and tendrils that cascaded around her shoulders. Her make-up was darker than it had ever been with smoky eyes and dark red, nearly purple lipstick. Ginny had worried that all the dark colors would make her look overly pale and washed-out, but now that she examined herself, she rather liked the effect as her freckles seemed to disappear.

"I don't know," Alyson sighed worriedly. "He wouldn't say. Probably something overly extravagant and generally outrageous."

"Well, it _is_ Colin," Ginny conceded with a smirk. She reached for the thin black cape that came with her costume and pulled it around her shoulders. The flow of her sleeves, cape, and skirt was beautiful, and she stood a little taller. It made it easier to use her imagination, made it easier to believe that tonight would be fun.

"They better not be late, either," said Alyson, motioning to the clock on the kitchen counter. She was bent-over adjusting her open-toed shoes that weren't exactly witch-quality, but definitely accentuated her seductive dress.

"I'm sure they won't—"

A buzz sounded and Alyson hobbled over to the speaker box to let Colin and Dean in. Ginny took a deep breath. It was seven o'clock, and that meant Halloween was nearly over. Just five more hours. But then she had to deal with the first week of November.

_Shut it out, just shut it out_, she ordered as one of their dates knocked on the door. She was going to be a good date for Dean and enjoy herself.

"Oh my . . . Colin—_what are you wearing?_"

Ginny stepped towards the door, carrying her satin hat. Standing on tiptoes to see over Alyson's shoulder, Ginny saw something that was very dark and rather rubbery grinning madly at them. She blinked. Colin was dressed as a rather odd . . . thing that seemed to lend muscle definition and give him pointy ears at the top of his head. Across his waist was a yellow belt with an assortment of . . . gadgets? . . . and his chest sported a yellow, sideways oval with the silhouette of a bat on it.

"Like it?" Colin laughed, spinning around so his black cape swirled around him. In one fell swoop, he grabbed the swirling cape and drew it over his face, so only his laughing, squinting eyes were peering through his mask. "I am . . . Batman!"

Alyson was laughing so hard that she needed to grab the doorframe. Ginny only raised her eyebrows and smirked, feeling slightly confused about who or what Batman was, and how on earth Colin managed to get into a full rubber body suit. _If he mentions anything about butter_, Ginny thought, now slightly repulsed, amused, and worried.

"You're mad, Colin," she said, shaking her head. "Where'd you get such a thing?"

"From a very gentlemanly butler." Colin swooped down on Alyson's shaking form, lifted her by her elbows, and said in a voice much deeper than should have been possible for any Creevey, "Do not fear, m'lady, for you are safe in the arms of . . . Batman!"

"Y-y-you . . ." but whatever Alyson tried to say was lost in another fit of giggles. However, she was standing on her own feet and poking the rubbery costume, of which, Ginny noticed, Colin seemed to be encouraging.

"I tried to get Dean to come as Robin," Colin told Alyson, poking his head out the door, "but the _spineless _prat wouldn't have any of it."

"Well, you get rubber and he would have tights," Alyson reasoned, trying to stifle her giggles.

"And that," said Dean, finally entering the apartment, "would be unacceptable and completely unfair."

This time, both Ginny and Alyson burst into laughter. Having just witnessed the muscularly-rubber clad Colin, Ginny thought Dean's Musketeer costume seemed both saner and more hysterical all at once. Especially since Dean obviously had weighed his feathery hat more masculine than tights.

"Ladies," said Dean in a bad French accent as he tipped his hat and bowed, "you look positively ravishing."

"You're both idiots!" Alyson giggled, swatting at Dean's enormous feather.

Dean straightened and his eyes fell on Ginny. She felt her cheeks begin to warm under his gaze and fidgeted with one of her sleeves.

"Well, let's get going, then," Alyson commanded briskly as she looped her arm through Colin's. "Come along, my hero in rubber."

Dean rolled his eyes as the couple waltzed out the door before offering his elbow. "Shall we?"

Although Ginny had been to Billywig's twice before, she had never been there on an official date, or for a specially set-aside occasion as a Halloween dance. Having only been to one actual dance event before and celebrating Halloween at Hogwarts with a feast, she wasn't sure what to expect. Certainly the Weird Sisters weren't playing as they had at the Yule Ball, and she knew from Alyson that there was no feast.

So, fighting her nervousness and melancholy, Ginny forced an anticipating smile on her face and tried to push her memories behind her. No sense in being a bad date to Dean.

By eleven o'clock, Ginny was thinking she was doing both a terrific and terrible job of it. It had been somewhat of a relief to discover that the dance club had barely undergone any transformation for the occasion, except to add floating pumpkins, an extra refreshment table, and pumpkin-colored tablecloths and pumpkin center pieces, filled with an assortment of hard candy, on the few tables bordering the dance floor. She was rather relieved, however, to discover there were alternative drinks to pumpkin juice and Butterbeer.

Arriving around eight, Dean and Colin had instantly submitted their entries to the costume contest, sampled the food table, and then dragged their dates onto the dance floor. It somewhat amazed Ginny to see so many witches and wizards, not all Muggle-born, eagerly embracing the Muggle influence for costumes and Halloween traditions. Of course, now that the Ministry had created awareness against blood discrimination, many witches and wizards were eager to prove they were not prejudice or in any way connected to the last remnants of Dark wizards.

And so the party, packed with so many people between eighteen and twenty-five that Ginny and Dean lost track of Alyson and Colin, was a clutter of Muggle and wizard culture, making for a wide variety of music and costumes. Susannah Holmes, from Ginny's year, even had come as a combination of a banshee and a harlot.

With such a loud, festive atmosphere, Ginny found herself able to smile and laugh with former classmates and somehow not make a complete fool of herself on the dance floor. Yet whenever there was a slow song and Dean took her by the waist to the floor, Ginny felt a stiffening in her body, a tightness in her chest.

"Finally," Dean murmured just as the pounding beat of something definitely Muggle eased into a slow Celtic ballad, "I was wondering when they'd play another slow one."

Ginny smiled and agreed, though she felt a small tremor as she stepped into Dean's arms. "Yes, I was starting to get tired," she said, hoping he hadn't noticed.

"We can sit if you need a rest."

"No, no, I'm fine." Ginny smiled up at him and tightened her hands on his shoulders slightly. She caught the pleased look in his eye and tried not to feel guilty. She'd been doing this all night, encouraging him, allowing him to touch her even when they weren't dancing and drop a kiss or two on her cheek. If she sat out a dance, all of her memories of this night two years ago would come tumbling back to her. But if she stayed with Dean, allowed _his_ touch to overrule Harry's memory, then she knew she could survive the night.

_And I'm supposed to do this, anyway_, she thought as she let her cheek rest against Dean's shoulder, so he couldn't see her sadness. _I need to move on. Get Harry out of my mind. _

But as the memory of kissing Harry enveloped her, Ginny was quite sure it would be impossible. Closing her eyes tightly, she fought back potential tears, knowing it wouldn't do to smear her make-up or embarrass Dean.

"_Stop being a whinging, self-pitying little prat."_ Draco Malfoy's disgusted face appeared in her mind, sneering at her now as he had in the woods around Malfoy Manor.

Ginny's eyes snapped open and she raised her head, half-expecting Draco to be standing just over Dean's shoulders.

"Gin?" Dean was gazing at her questioningly. "Are you all right?"

"Hmm?" Ginny stared at him. "Oh . . . yes. Sorry, I was just thinking."

"About what?"

Ginny let her eyes sweep the abundance of pumpkin, slowly dancing couples, chatting friends, and flickering candles. "Oh, just about how this is such a lovely evening, and however awful a discredit this is to Neville, I'm having a better time than at the Yule Ball." _But I'm still wishing I was with Harry_.

Dean smiled and kissed her forehead and drew her a little closer. Ginny closed her eyes again, concentrating on the feel of his lips as he kissed her cheek, forcing the comparison of his kiss to Harry's out of her mind. When his lips left her, she let her eyes flutter open long enough to find his mouth, and then she kissed him, seizing the opportunity before she could give it thought.

Kissing Dean was always something comfortable to Ginny, if somewhat embarrassing, even if they had done so sparingly. She'd liked it, but she hadn't known how different a kiss could be until Halloween of her sixth year. With Dean she wasn't bombarded with emotion, but relaxed and somewhat curious, somewhat reserved and cautious. It was comforting to find that again, to feel without really feeling . . .

"Well, that was unexpected," Dean chuckled lowly when she broke away.

"Sorry," she said, feeling her cheeks burn slightly. She pressed her lips together and looked down between them, her heart suddenly pounding.

"Don't be." He tilted her chin up, smiled, and kissed her chastely. Then he looked around them as the slow ballad came to an end and a few people clapped politely. "What do you say we get out of here, go for a walk or something? I don't think I could manage another fast dance or another limbo."

"But what about the costume announcement?" asked Ginny, as they headed back to their table, where Alyson and Colin were engrossed in a thumb wrestling match. Alyson was obviously winning.

Dean shrugged. "I'm not going to win. Someone took my hat."

Ginny bit her lip, hoping her conflicted feelings didn't show. She was still shocked by what she'd just done and wasn't sure she should trust herself with Dean. But neither did she want to stay at Billywig's any longer or go home alone.

"Let's go," she nodded, reaching for her cloak.


	6. The Push

**A/N: In celebration of me finally making my HP, H/G, and Captive/Ambivalence soundtracks (soon to be posted on my site), I'm putting up another chapter although I _technically_ I have not submitted another new future one to my beta. Third semester is Hell.**

**Chapter Six**

"_The Push"_

Outside of Billywig's, about a block either way, Ginny could see stumbling, laughing wizards and witches in various forms of costume dress enjoying the crisp night air. She doubted the cold or gently falling flakes had any sort of sobering effect on any of them.

Even under the influence of several butterbeers to warm her, Ginny felt cold and numb as she allowed Dean to take her companionably by the elbow away from the raucous entrance. She hated the cold.

"Where would you like to go?" Dean asked after several steps. They passed a princess and a zombie exchanging saliva, but otherwise this end of the block was deserted.

Ginny shrugged, trying hard not to shiver. Her head pounded from the music, and her confusion over spontaneously kissing Dean. And it was so cold . . .

"I don't care."

Dean looked down at her, brow slightly furrowed. "Are you cold? You're shaking."

Ginny managed a weak smile. "I'm afraid this cloak is more costume than warmth."

"Take mine." As he wrapped his thick cloak around her shoulders, he dropped a lingering kiss on her forehead.

Biting her lip, Ginny closed her eyes, wanting to scream. She should have stayed home, should have begged Alyson to let her wallow in memories and misery.

"Snug?"

Ginny opened her eyes and busied herself with adjusting the cloak. "Yes. Thank you. But now you'll get hypothermia, and your aunt will have my head at work."

"Oh, I'm quite fine. My costume cloak is a bit heavier than yours." Dean wore a little smile on his face as he looked around and then at her. "I doubt much is open this time of night. Well, the pubs. But you don't want to go to a pub, do you?"

"Not in _this_ dress," said Ginny, opening the cloak slightly to flash her less-than-conservative costume.

"I'd protect you." Dean brandished his sword from the faux-leather scabbard with a flourish. He took her hand and kissed the top of it, then slashed the blade through the air. "I am in Gryffindor, you know."

Ginny rolled her eyes and smirked. "I doubt even a drunk would be afraid of your _plastic_ sword."

"Well, if you don't _tell_ anyone it's plastic . . ." He sheathed his toy and raised his eyebrows expectantly. "The night is ours, fair maiden—er, Ginny. Sorry." Dean grinned despite her arched eyebrow.

She knew what was going on. Dean wanted her to call the shots. After all, she'd acted rather unexpectedly at Billywig's, so now Dean clearly wanted her to clue him in on where she wanted to take them. She didn't know. She was too confused and cold to think straight.

"Well, can we go inside somewhere? Not back to Billywig's, nor a pub."

"Hmm . . ." Dean examined the tip of his scabbard carefully. "I suppose we could go to my place," he said slowly, as if worried how she would take it. "Seamus might bring someone home, though . . ."

"Not until morning, if I know Seamus," said Ginny.

Dean's eyes shot up and the scabbard swung, forgotten, on his belt. "So . . . you want to come over? I mean, we could watch a movie or something, or play Exploding Snap, or just talk, or—" He stopped abruptly, and Ginny wondered if Dean might actually be blushing.

The possibility made her distinctly uncomfortable. She'd never actually been to Dean's flat, nor did she entirely think her unpredictable behavior tonight made it advisable. Still, her only alternative was to go home, where Harry would undoubtedly haunt her . . .

"Sure," said Ginny, forcing a brightness into her voice, "I'd love to see your flat."

"Really?" said Dean eagerly. "I mean, great. It's a bit of a mess, though." Suddenly, he let out a laugh. "We can watch _Batman_. The movie. Then you can understand Colin."

"No one can understand Colin."

Dean laughed and slung an arm around her shoulders. "Too right." He tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. "Actually, I think Alyson might. She's been rather enthusiastic about his costume tonight."

"That's because she's drunk." But Ginny couldn't help but grin and shake her head at her two friends. Alyson and Colin had always been rather buoyant around each other. Really, it was a wonder they hadn't become more than friends while at Hogwarts . . .

"Come on, we can Apparate over here," said Dean, pulling her toward a side alley.

A crack sounded and three giggling witches appeared, stumbling into one another and laughing even more. Dean and Ginny waited until they'd left the alley before stepping into the darkened area. Having been near but not to Dean's flat, they agreed on a close-by rendezvous and Disapparated.

Dean took her hand and led her down two blocks to his flat. The lobbyist snored soundly at his desk, a radio buzzing quietly behind him.

"That's Mr. Rhoden. I've never actually seen him awake."

"Then how do you know his name?" The middle-aged, balding man was face down and no nametag or plaque in sight.

"Seamus told me. Apparently he's talked to him."

As they went up two flights of stairs, Dean still holding her hand, Ginny fought the urge to flee. His thumb stroked her hand. She tried to focus on it, on the physical reality of his warm hand rather than the penetrating cold inside her.

Just as she was feeling secure in his hand, Dean dropped hers to fumble for his keys and wand. Ginny might have smiled at his similar security system, but her hand had become cold again and started to shake.

"Here we are," said Dean, smiling as he opened the door and flicked on the lights. He put his hand on the small of her back as she took a slightly hesitant step inside. "Mind the mess."

Dean's flat could not have been more different than hers, yet Ginny could see the 'amateur resident' theme permeating the chaos of strewn about clothes, dishes, and video cassettes. Dean, being Muggle-born, obviously still held onto his heritage: a TV and VCR filled one wall. However, Seamus's broomstick leaned against the opposite wall under his Quidditch posters and rosettes left over from the World Cup she'd attended just before third year.

"Here, let me take your—er, my cloak," Dean said hastily. "I haven't a cloak rack, actually, so it's probably a good thing it's not yours . . ."

Ginny couldn't help but smile at his show of nervousness. How different he was from Joe, who didn't apologize for his clutter or lack of wooing accessories.

Dean scooped up some telltale clothing items along with his cloak and disappeared momentarily into another room. When he returned, he looked much more at ease and smiled easily, "Want something to drink? I've got more butterbeer, but you're probably sick of that."

"No, I'm fine." She tried not to shiver in her costume. Away from the party, she felt exposed and self-conscious, especially when Dean paused and _looked_ at her. She'd seen that look . . . on a distant Halloween . . .

"Let's watch that rubber man movie," she said quickly. "I need teasing fodder for Colin."

She sat on the lumpy old couch as Dean rifled through the stack of videos, jabbering about superheroes and some guy named Tim. At one point, he discarded his Musketeer cloak and scabbard. When he finally found it, he grinned widely with boyish anticipation and started the movie.

"There's a blanket if you're cold," he said, sitting down beside her and putting an arm along the back of the couch behind her.

Ginny opened her mouth to say, "No, I'm fine," but then nodded. A blanket could hide her. She could burrow into it, cling to it if necessary. Dean smiled and leaned over the couch arm and pulled out a tattered quilt. Then he draped it over them, and this time kept his arm around her shoulders.

Without intending it, Ginny leaned into him, drawn to the warmth of his body. There was something very stabilizing in being braced against another person. If only she could stay focused on him and not think about anything else . . .

Not even fifteen minutes into the movie about a rubber-clad rich man and a psychopathic criminal soaked in green goo, a clock chimed from the tiny kitchen.

"Midnight," said Dean.

Ginny nodded, but her throat closed. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth. Two years ago, Harry had kissed her, left her alone in the common room, and then the very next day told her it was all just one big mistake. And then she'd run off, unable to take it or face him, had been captured by Death Eaters, then tortured by Voldemort, ordered a snake to kill Macnair, and then surrendered to Voldemort and betrayed Harry—

Fighting a sob, she burrowed closer to Dean and felt him tighten his arm around her. She wondered if perhaps he knew what day this was . . . _I don't want him to think of it_. _I don't want to think of it_.

And yet she couldn't stop. The TV screen fell away to a low fire in Gryffindor Tower, and she could see and feel everything that had happened and was going to happen again in her mind.

She didn't want to think about Harry's kiss, how he'd say so firmly he didn't feel that way about her, how later he might have taken that back if she'd let him . . .

"Dean," she said, her voice low and hoarse. Her heart was pounding. Again, this strange, impulsive, utterly mad Ginny was taking over.

"Hmm?"

She tilted her head up and turned her torso toward him. His face brightened and he forgot the TV.

"Kiss me?"

The tiny plea even surprised her, but she kept her features as sweet as she could manage. She needed to stay grounded here, not in her memories of something that could not be changed. Harry was out of her life; she'd made sure of that.

For a moment, Dean looked surprised, but he quickly recovered. In a low voice, he said, "Well, if you really want me to . . ."

And then Ginny could feel his hands and mouth. It took her a couple of seconds to respond. She had to find that mindless comfortable way they'd had before, where the only feeling was physical.

But her lack of emotion only made it worse. She and Harry had barely kissed but it had been so much more than this . . .

_Block it out, block it out!_ Determined to push it all away, Ginny leaned into Dean, pushing him down on the couch and letting the kissing progress further than she'd ever let it before. He chuckled in surprise. Ginny's mouth hurt, but she relished in it because she could latch onto pain. Her skin seemed pleased by Dean's touch, to say the least, and for a moment, she had no other thought than this was rather nice, actually.

At some point, she found her and Dean's positions switched, and her mouth became unattended for other exposed flesh. A panic welled in her, but it wasn't for how far they had progressed.

_You're such a liar, Ginny Weasley. Such a weak little liar._

She could feel it all building up inside, coiling like a snake; the agony of having Harry for a moment, losing him, betraying him, and then truly losing him. The cold of the cell, Voldemort's taunting laugh, Harry dying over a cauldron, his blood spilling into it . . . She could feel his fingertips brushing her cheek.

_I'll never feel that again. I betrayed him._

Dean's lips were at her neck, his hands in her hand. The physical warmth turned to searing stings, as if he were biting _liar_ into her skin.

_What have I done? What am I doing?!_

With a wrenching cry, Ginny pushed against Dean, nearly toppling him off the couch.

"No," she gasped, a sob bubbling in her throat. "No!"

Head and heart throbbing erratically, she sat up, a hand rubbing at her neck, the other gripping the loose couch fabric with white knuckles. The world spun and black dots splashed across her vision. The panic rose to an unbearable pitch—she didn't know if she'd scream or simply faint.

"Ginny?" Dean whispered tentatively from the other end of the couch. "Ginny, I-I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to—You're shaking!"

A hysterical sound erupted from her throat. Not for a moment did Ginny stop to think about who'd made the sound; she couldn't hold back the sobs anymore. Hugging herself tightly, she rocked back and forth on the couch, completely lost for control.

"Sssh, Ginny, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm sorry. It's okay. Ginny?"

Dimly she was aware of Dean edging closer to her on the couch, but her ears were ringing and her vision saw nothing but the horrid way she'd just behaved and all the other terrible things she'd done.

Dean tried to put an arm around her shoulders, but Ginny jerked away. _I've got to get out of here. _She stood up and stumbled over her skirt. Fumbling for her wand, she managed to croak out, "I-I have to g-go."

"Ginny!" Through her blurred vision, she could see the horror and confusion marring Dean's usually calm face. "Please . . . let's talk about this. I honestly didn't mean—"

Ginny shook her head fervently, then held it steady with her hands. "No . . . no, Dean," she gulped. "It's . . . it's not you, it's me."

He snorted derisively. "C'mon, I know what that means!"

"I . . ." Ginny blinked at him. He obviously wanted an answer, not some lame excuse, but that _was_ the truth. He wasn't the problem.

"We can set boundaries, if you like. We did get a bit carried away," said Dean, filling her silence. "I was a bit surprised when you—"

"It's not that," she said, wishing her hands would stop shaking. She cast about for something to focus on other than a bewildered Dean. Her face, once drained of blood, was quickly flooding with it, making her even dizzier. How was she going to explain this?

_Tell him the truth. You lied to Harry to push him away; now you can use the truth to get Dean away from you._

"Then what is it? You've been all hot and cold with me lately."

Ginny closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, bracing herself. "Dean . . . I'm really sorry."

"Sorry?"

"I'm really messed up right now," she said slowly. She opened her eyes and her heart quickened with humiliation and shame. "I—I'm—I made a terrible mistake. Well, I made lots of those, but I made the mistake of using a . . . a friend."

She was going to be sick.

"I only kissed you so I wouldn't have to think about someone—some_thing_ else." Her words came quickly, breathlessly, and she stumbled over her next words as she reached for her wand. Another minute of watching the disbelief in Dean's face dissolve into betrayal, and she would completely lose it. "I'm so sorry, it's my fault, I've lied to so many friends now. Please just stay away from me. I don't want to hurt you or anyone else. And don't be noble or nice and say you forgive me or understand—just stay away. Please!"

Before Dean could say anything, before he could tell her to stop or realize what she was doing, Ginny gave her wand a twist and Disapparated.

(a journal entry)

_Her footfalls echoed the pounding of her heart as she raced down the empty cobbled streets. Cold night air constricted her lungs, but she knew it would not have mattered. Without racing, without November chill, she could not have breathed normally, calmly. The simple power of breathing—thinking, feeling—had been snatched away, but she tried to grasp it as she paused to lean against a corner of a brick building and stared unseeingly into the empty street._

_She had many epiphanies in her life; little revelations that seemed to forward her. Tonight, however, she felt no such progression. Only a deep, drilling acknowledgement that she had made a terrible mistake, a mistake that compounded with all her other mistakes._

_She was quite good at making mistakes, she thought bitterly. Usually her mistakes hurt no one but herself, but in the past couple of years, she had outwardly hurt others. Her first had been her love, and now a friend. _

_What drove her to such dishonesty? _

_She sank wearily to the sidewalk, her back pressed against the cold brick. The physical, solid chill of the stone felt nothing compared to the harsh, ever-present coldness inside her. Vaguely she could recall a time when she hadn't always been cold, but it seemed too distant, too surreal. A time when her dishonesty had been comparably innocent, easily excused by the situation. Now, however, her dishonesty was nothing dismissive._

_It consumed her._

_Why was she such easy prey? So easily consumed, possessed? Overtaken by memories, ideologies—Why was she so easily driven to madness? How had she become so weak, or had she always been weak? _

_She had tried valiantly to appear fearless and confident, rational and optimistic. Once she had believed that she embodied these things that the darkness inside her could not arise. Her weakness had been downplayed, forgotten, but it had skulked at her conscience, always ready to strike._

_Lightning can strike twice, and she could not survive the second blow. Disillusionment bought time and pain, but it cannot survive reality. Her reality stood with betrayal and surrender. How could she love and allow herself to be loved without shame and guilt? So unworthy a soul, unwilling to fight, surrenders, and thus, is consumed._

_It is so painful and yet easier after yielding. Dwelling in the cold darkness withers a soul, but strangely, deceptively comforts. Feeling and numbness oscillate at a hypnotizing swing until freedom is no longer a goal, idea, or word._

_Could she have prevented her fall? _

_Wondering about it feels useless. I am here, at the bottom, still sinking. _

Heated dust tickled her nose. A sharp ache throbbed in her lower back and she felt a pain in her knees. Slowly she became aware of the hard surface under, behind, in front, and beside her. She was enclosed . . .

Ginny's eyes flew open in a panic.

With a cry she toppled to the floor, the journal and fountain pen that had been in her lap flying. She lay there, crumpled, for a minute. The night's disaster fell upon her as she stared at the journal, which laid face down a few feet from her. She dug her nails into the carpet, then rolled onto her back.

"_I'm sorry, Dean."_

"_Sorry?"_

"_I'm really messed up."_

"Shit." Ginny stared up at the ceiling. Her list for Worst Night of My Life had grown while the list of friends had shortened. No _way_ would Dean forgive her for this. She hadn't waited for him to say it, but had Apparated as close to the flat as she could, nearly getting splinched with her panic.

Although Ginny very much wanted to lie there, sinking into the old carpet, she heard the sound of a key being turned, and quickly rolled up into a sitting position. As the door opened, she snatched up her journal and pen.

"Well, good morning," Alyson greeted Ginny, more or less dragging herself through the door. Her hair was rumpled and messily braided and she was dressed in old Magpie robes, her black evening costume draped over one shoulder. "Ginny," she said, doing a double-take, "you're a mess!"

"Lovely to see you, too," Ginny retorted. She felt very tired and frustrated, and definitely not in the mood to deal with people.

Alyson raised an eyebrow as she dumped her stuff on the sofa. "Rough night?"

"Yes." She rubbed a fist into an eye, knowing she must be all puffy and red from crying. "Were you with Colin all night?" she asked, to drive the conversation away from herself.

"Yeah," Alyson smirked. "Nothing sensational, but we had fun." She frowned seriously. "What happened, though? You looked like you were having fun last night, and then you left with Dean."

"Please, let's not talk about him?" Ginny pleaded, clutching her journal to her chest.

Alyson continued to stare, apparently not ready to be deterred. Ginny sighed, feeling all her blood rush to her feet, leaving her lightheaded. "Dean and I had a falling out, okay? It's my fault, my own stupidity, and I just don't want to talk about it."

"Okay," Alyson nodded her head slowly, still looking somber and suspicious. "Well, I haven't slept yet, so I'm off for a little nap. Holler if you need anything." And with that, she traipsed off to her bedroom, leaving Ginny alone, clutching her book of words.

"Ginny!" Ron Weasley exclaimed not twenty minutes later. "What in all of Merlin happened to you?"

"Shut up, Ron," Ginny muttered, rubbing a fist into her bloodshot, puffy eye. She blinked into the corridor and noticed a spiky, shorter redhead behind The Most Pratty Brother's shoulder. "What are you and George doing here, anyway?"

"We just thought we'd come to say hello to our favorite sister," said George, pushing past Ron and giving Ginny a serious look. Without a word, he grabbed her and pulled her into a tight hug. "How're you doing?" he asked quietly.

Ginny stared at him. How could he possibly know about her nasty fallout with Dean? "What do you mean?"

George raised his eyebrows and glanced at Ron, whose ears had turned slightly pink. "Well . . . it's the first of November," he said slowly, sounding slightly uncertain, "and we figured you'd like some company today."

"Oh . . . that." Ginny didn't know whether to be relieved, touched, or annoyed by this sudden show of brotherly concern. Obviously, they didn't know about what she'd done, and it was rather sweet of them to think of her, but did no one think she could deal with anything on her own? _Well, I can't_, a little voice chided.

"Come on in," she sighed, opening the door completely for them. Truthfully, she didn't want to be alone. She'd been up until dawn trying to figure out her mess, hadn't really thought about today being the day she woke in Lucius Malfoy's cold cell, but now that she was reminded, she didn't want to be alone and craved distraction

"Guess what?" said Ron eagerly, pulling something from his cloak pocket. He waved a thick envelope in the air. "Harry wrote."

"Oh. That's nice. D'you two want some tea?"

"Sure," said George.

"I thought it'd cheer you up," Ron said uncertainly, looking down at the letter, his brow furrowed.

Ginny rolled her eyes, feeling all her bitterness well up as she set the teapot on the stove. "Honestly, Ron, what is there to be thrilled about? _Dear Ron and family—Things are just peachy, as I always say they are. Seen some interesting things in this country. Of course, I won't say anything really about myself, unless it's in a private letter to Ron or Hermione, and even then I won't actually say much about how things REALLY are. Oh yes, tell everyone hello for me. Bye. Harry._" Ginny set the water to boiling and looked back at her stunned brothers. "Go on, Ron, read this highly informative and personal letter."

"You know," said George thoughtfully, "that's a rather accurate reading, Gin."

"Shut up, George." Ginny set about grabbing teacups. She was being ridiculous, but she couldn't help it. Why should she pretend to be okay and calm now? Dean knew she was whacked, _she_ knew she was whacked, and probably everyone else thought so and just kept it to themselves. Well, now there was no reason to pretend or act fine.

"So, I take it Harry hasn't written you in awhile?" George pressed as Ginny poured the tea.

"No," she said shortly. "We haven't written each other since seventh year."

"Lovers' quarrel?"

"You know as well as I do we were never lovers. Ron, just read the damn letter and stop gaping."

"Uh . . . right." Ron cleared his throat, clearly bewildered by her behavior. George nudged him, so he quickly opened the letter, a photograph falling face down on the counter. George snatched it up, his eyes widening. "What is it?" Ron asked, leaning over, but George just shook his head and nodded to the letter, sending Ginny a nervous look.

"_Dear Ron_," read Ron, "_I know I haven't written in awhile, but I've been busy in Australia, and the owls take longer to get to any other continent, despite their own transportation. I don't think Hedwig likes being more or less Portkeyed from Sydney that much._

"_Anyway, Australia is amazing. Relations between Muggles and wizards are pretty relaxed here, and it's a nice change of pace from the States. Sydney's an interesting city around a harbor, was settled by convicts, and is reminiscent of London but definitely has its own personality. I know I sound like a brochure, but I really like it here._

"_I'm living with an Aussie named Renee Blackstone and that's her in the picture. She's a witch but really likes Muggle culture, especially rock bands. I think she think she's a rock star. She's really cool, I think Fred and George would really like her, but I doubt they have a chance—"_

"What's _that_ supposed to mean, you git?" George demanded.

"Let me see that picture," Ron said, snatching it out of his brother's hand and passing off the letter. "Harry's living with _her_? The lucky bastard!"

Ginny pressed her knuckles into the kitchen counter. She didn't want to hear this. George must have caught the expression on her face, because he sharply elbowed Ron in the ribs and grabbed the picture back.

"Keep reading. I want to know where he gets off on me not getting a girl."

"Whatever. _'I doubt they a have chance. She's, um, not partial to men. Or, at least, not most of the time. Sometimes I'm not so sure, I think she might just be pulling my leg._

"_Anyway, Renee's loads of fun. My first weekend as her flatmate, she took me up to New Zealand for what she calls 'extreme thrillage.' Ron, I may have found a bigger rush than Quidditch. We went bungee jumping, skydiving, and speedboat racing. For a country full of sheep, New Zealand's incredible. We're going back up (probably before you get this letter) to camp and watch a Quidditch match in the mountains._

"_By the way, I heard the Cannons actually won a game. That's great, mate, but it doesn't mean they'll win the season'—_Harry, you git!—_'Tell everyone I miss them. Harry."_

"Well," said George cheerfully, "that was interesting. Sounds like he's having fun."

"Yeah. Let me see that picture again."

But before George could pass the photograph to Ron, Ginny snatched it up. She backed away from her brothers, feeling her cheeks heat under their knowing gazes. She'd thought she'd made it apparent to everyone that she didn't like Harry like that, but it seemed that everyone had seen through the façade. Now, staring down at the photograph, Ginny felt a painful spike of jealousy.

It was a wizard photograph taken out on a balcony overlooking a harbor of blue water and white sailboats. Harry was leaning back in a chair, looking far more relaxed than Ginny had seen him in years. His hair was as tousled as ever and he looked not quite so pale. A sheepish smile touched his lips as the girl leaning around him rumpled his hair with her fist.

Ginny bit her lip as she studied Renee Blackstone. She understood why her brothers were so obviously jealous of Harry and why Harry probably didn't mind that arm around his shoulders or hand in his hair. Dark auburn hair tossed over her bare shoulders caught the sunlight, causing ruby highlights to run up and down her shiny hair. Dark blue eyes sparkled, twinkling with mischief, and her full lips laughed, flashing Ginny a white smile. Her skin was tanned perfectly without becoming too dark and unnatural. Everything about her spoke of a vivacious, carefree outlook on life.

Ginny was jealous of the girl's looks, her happiness, and her closeness with Harry. She fought the urge to rip the photo into pieces. Staring down at it again, she focused on Harry and his shy, somewhat embarrassed and guarded smile. It nearly, but not quite, reached his eyes. When had been the last time she'd truly seen Harry smile?

"Here," said Ginny, quickly handing the photo back to Ron. "Thanks for coming over, but you guys better leave. I've got to work tonight and need to clean this place up."

It was a lie, they all knew it, but Ron and George obediently finished their tea and bid their good-byes. Once they were gone, Ginny showered and changed. She couldn't stand to be in the apartment any longer, so she grabbed her trench coat and headed over to Joe's just as the family owl swooped in with her mother's invitation to come over to The Burrow.

**A/N: There. You have Harry. :-p Ok, I'm mean, but you're just going to have to deal with it. ;-)**


	7. That Cursed Mistletoe

Chapter Seven

"_That Cursed Mistletoe"_

Snow fell slowly outside the window, coating everything in soft white. Ginny pressed her forehead against the cool glass and gazed out into the tranquil street as light slowly faded from the sky. She sighed as her eyes fell to her watch. Twenty minutes ago she should have been at the Burrow for Christmas Eve dinner, but despite her growing hunger for the abundance of well-cooked food, she couldn't bring herself to Apparate from Joe's flat.

"Bah humbug," she whispered, her breath briefly fogging the window. Just about any other year, Ginny would have been jubilant right now with Christmas cheer and general happiness to be home for the holidays. One Christmas was the exception, and she was quite sure this one would join it.

"Here's your hot chocolate, Scrooge," said Joe's translucent reflection.

"Thanks," said Ginny, turning from the window and giving him a wan smile. "Am I really that bad?"

"Yes, terribly." But Joe smiled indulgently and pushed the black mug into her hands. "Have a little chocolate, you'll feel better."

"Hmm," she murmured, and then deeply breathed in the steam rising from the mug. After a few tentative sips, she glanced out the window again. The snow seemed to be falling in bigger flakes now. By morning there would be enough for a brilliant snowball fight. She'd always loved smashing packed snow into her brothers' surprised faces.

"It can't be _that_ bad, can it?" Joe broke into her musings.

Ginny turned, feeling the warmth of the drink leave her. "Not usually," she admitted. "Mum's an excellent cook and overfeeds us, and my brothers usually come up with something exciting to drive her mad." Her hands wrapped tightly around the mug and she moved her gaze away from Joe's. "It'll probably be mostly like that, but, well, they haven't seen me in over a month, and Mum doesn't approve of my life, and—" She swallowed and closed her eyes.

_And Harry will be there_, she thought.

Ron had told her that Harry had arrived three days ago from Australia. Harry hadn't bothered to visit, for which Ginny was both hurt and relieved.

"Ginny," Joe said, placing a hand on each of her shoulders. "If you're worried about what your family will think of you—don't. They're your family, they still love you, even if you've deserted and gone to the wild side."

She had to laugh. "The wild side?"

Joe grinned crookedly and shrugged. "Well, you _have_ changed your looks a little, but what's wrong with that? You just wear your emotions outside."

"Yeah, that's what it is," Ginny muttered darkly.

"Anyway," said Joe, checking his watch. "You're making me late to my _own_ dinner, and Alyson will taunt me to no end for it."

"Sorry. I know I abuse the 'open door' privilege too much." Ginny moved for her cloak and rucksack, but Joe stopped her with a hand on her elbow. "Tell Alyson Happy Christmas for me again, okay?"

Joe nodded, but gazed at her seriously. "Okay, but you have a Happy Christmas as well, Gin." Then he gave her head a pat and her cheek a quick kiss. Ginny tried to smile but couldn't, so she drew her wand, and Apparated to the Burrow.

The world was absolutely still and silent. Large flakes fell all around her, covering her head and shoulders as she stood at the edge of the Burrow's yard. Everything was perfectly silent. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees or whirled the perfect flakes. The ground, trees, and hills were pure and glowing softly around her. It was cold but so still she couldn't feel it. She could stay out here forever and let the snow cover her in white peace.

But the Burrow loomed before her, basking in its own glow, every window lit and displaying a homemade decoration. Smoke rose from the chimney, and she could faintly smell the delicious, enormous Christmas dinner. Her mother was no doubt bustling around the kitchen, waving her wand at the pots, her other hand swatting at whichever boy was dipping into the food early. The tree would be creaking under the strain of all their collected ornaments, barely supported by the small pile of lumpy, odd-shaped presents tucked under it. Someone would be constantly waiting in line for the bathroom, occasionally impatiently banging on the door. A cacophony would follow the twins wherever they went, as would their mother's shouts. Her dad would probably be dressed as Father Christmas for a good laugh, and everyone would be hopefully eyeing the presents that weren't obviously knitted jumpers.

Ginny sighed and shivered under her cloak. Part of her desperately wanted to join the warmth and forget the past few months—_years—_and smile and berate her mother for sneaking mistletoes all over the house. But she knew too well by now that even pretending to be carefree and excited only made it worse inside. Once, what seemed long ago, she had no need to pretend Christmas cheer.

Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Ginny gathered her resolve and started up the small hill to the Burrow.

Just outside the door, however, she paused as her nervousness jumped to a higher level. She could hear voices.

". . . is that girl? Honestly! Arthur, do you suppose she isn't coming?"

"Molly, she'll be here. You know how much she loves Christmas. I'm sure she's just been busy and is on her way."

"I don't, Arthur," Molly said worriedly. "She quit her job at Flourish and Blotts last month, hasn't been in to see the twins much, and we haven't even seen her since October! Always busy working in that Muggle café, too busy for family. What is happening to her?"

Ginny closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. She would rather stay out here and freeze than go inside to her mother.

"Let's not discuss this tonight," said Arthur hurriedly, dropping his voice slightly.

"Of course," Molly sniffed, sounding muffled. "Harry's here, and I don't want to spoil his Christmas. He's gotten a bit taller, hasn't he? And not quite as pale or skinny as he used to be. You know, Arthur, I wasn't so sure about him going off alone like that, but he does seem a bit happier, doesn't he? Bit of good to get away from all the fuss around here."

"Yes, he's growing up. Oh, that gravy smells delicious, dear."

It was quiet for a few minutes, and then Molly's voice startled Ginny as she called, "Dinner, everyone!!"

As always when boys moved through the Burrow, the house seemed to vibrate from their thundering feet and playful shoving. Ginny's breath hitched as she heard their exclamations over the lay of food and the scraping of chairs being pulled out and scooted in.

"This looks wonderful, Mrs. Weasley!" Hermione praised.

"Absolutely," said a woman's voice Ginny didn't recognize. "Thank you again for inviting us, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley."

"We're glad to have you," said Molly, clearly pleased with the compliments. "And do call us Molly and Arthur."

"But we can't eat!" Ron protested. "Ginny isn't here yet!"

"Yes, well, I'm sure she'll be here soon, and it's getting late," Molly said hurriedly, her voice strained. "Tuck in, everyone!"

Hearing the sounds of large spoons hitting plates as the potatoes, turkey, ham, and stuffing were plopped on plates, Ginny sank down to the cold front step, feeling anything but hungry. She could easily leave without them ever knowing. It would greatly hurt her family, and she knew she would regret it and feel all the worse, but it was tempting. Tomorrow she could celebrate Christmas with Alyson and Joe and owl her mother that she'd suddenly become ill. Bad eggnog or something.

But it would ruin Christmas for the family.

"This is delicious, Mrs. Weasley."

Ginny stiffened.

"Thank you, Harry, dear. Did you eat well in Australia?"

"Yeah," said Harry, and Ginny wanted to shut out his voice. "But not this well."

_Oh, Merlin!_ Her chest was so tight, she could barely breathe. Panic was rising in her, an emotion she had been without since that terrible night at Dean's. How could she possibly go in there? She would probably breakdown in front of everyone or have an awful row with her mother. All at once. Wouldn't Christmas really be better without her?

"Where _is_ that girl?"

"Molly—"

"No, Arthur, I don't want to hear it! It is _Christmas_ and she simply can't do this!"

The anger and hurt in her mother's voice stirred Ginny. She didn't want to ruin everyone's dinner with Molly's weeping tantrum, nor did she want everyone—especially Harry—to hear how she had alienated herself. Taking a shaky breath, she hitched up her rucksack on her shoulder, straightened her back, and faced the door. For a moment, she was at a loss of what to do, but then she lifted a fist and knocked tentatively.

"Well, I believe that's her. I'll get it." Someone's chair scraped the floor, and Ginny's stomach somersaulted. Then it opened, and she was looking up into her father's smiling face.

"Pumpkin!" Arthur cried, pulling her instantly into a hug.

"Happy Christmas, Dad," Ginny murmured into his shoulder. She stayed in his embrace for a moment, then wriggled out. "Sorry I'm late."

"No worries, no worries. We've just started. It's really snowing, isn't it? Mr. and Mrs. Granger were just telling me about blowsnowers! Really quite fantastic what Muggles get up to, isn't it?"

"Yes, Dad," Ginny couldn't help but smile slightly.

"Arthur!" Molly called. "Don't keep her out in the cold!"

"Oh! Right." Arthur stepped back and Ginny hesitated slightly before stepping into the instant warmth and light of the Burrow. She blinked in the glow. Then she heard two gasps, one from each of her parents, and it grew very quiet.

"Ginny!" Molly said breathlessly.

"Sorry I'm late, Mum."

Ignoring the shocked look on her mother's face, Ginny slowly let her gaze sweep the kitchen cramped of food and people. As always the extended table was straining under the onslaught of delicious, piping dishes of food, the counters were lined with pies and sweets for desserts, and everyone was crammed so close their elbows were bumping into one another. However, at the moment, everyone was staring at her with varied looks of surprise and welcome. Seated on either side by the head of the table, Fred and George were grinning at her as if she were already boiling in the kettle. George's spiked hair was now tipped in green. Bill, who was sitting beside Fred, had swiveled around in his chair, his eyebrows raised mildly. Ginny recognized Hermione's parents, who were smiling welcomingly at her, but looked slightly confused by everyone's staring. Ron's mouth was agape, his fork poised above his plate and his other hand under the table, no doubt holding Hermione's hand.

Hermione seemed as surprised as everyone else, but she had quickly recovered and was smiling pleasantly. Ginny could have let her eyes travel further over, but she didn't dare. She could feel his gaze and didn't want to meet it.

"What . . . what have you done to your hair?" Molly finally said, one hand clutching at her heart.

"I dyed it." Ginny had done so two weeks ago, having been in a Muggle shopping center with Alyson and Joe, who had been buying gifts for their family. The deep, dark auburn had leant her hair an almost purplish look in certain lights during the first week. It had lightened as it gradually washed out, but it was still much darker than her natural copper.

Molly mouthed wordlessly, but Arthur quickly recovered and smile. "Well, it looks lovely, dear. Let me take your rucksack."

"No, that's okay, I'll just drop it off in my room," said Ginny, desperately wanting to exit the room before her mother started commenting on her eye make-up and lipstick. Without waiting for a reply, she hurried for the staircase. The moment her feet hit the creaking stairs, she felt the kitchen exhale and people stir. Quickly, she shut her door and leaned against it, releasing her own nervous breath.

Her room hadn't changed, except for the added cot for Hermione. The walls were still covered with the faded, indiscernible wallpaper, and her bed was still covered in the same old quilt of her grandmother's. Even her old school trunk rested at the end of her bed. The only change in the room was how tidy and well-dusted it seemed to be.

"Well." Ginny dropped her sack on the bed. It was tempting to lie down and curl up under the familiar quilt and hide upstairs all night. But her mother would surely come for her. Sighing regretfully, she headed back downstairs as quiet as she could, avoiding all the memorized creaks.

"Pass the potatoes, please?" said Hermione politely. "Oh, the gravy, too."

Ginny came down the last step and halted.

No one had noticed her arrival. From the shadows of the threshold, she could observe Harry without having to catch his eye. He was talking with Ron and nodding. His hair was as messy as ever, but she knew it was flaked with white from his final battle with Voldemort. Although it might have been the fact his shoulders weren't slumped, Ginny thought he looked a little broader under Ron's maroon jumper.

"Since when have you become so shy, Gin?" called Bill, causing everyone to look up as well.

"Merry Christmas, Ginny," Hermione said with a smile. She pointed to the empty chair between Arthur and George . "Come sit down."

"Happy Christmas, everyone," said Ginny, barely turning the corners of her mouth up. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable with everyone still watching, and especially annoyed with her mother's appraising frown, Ginny quickly sat down, tucking her long hair behind her ears. She knew her mother was frowning at her attire, which consisted of a deep green, flowing-sleeved blouse and her black broomstick skirt.

When she looked up from putting her napkin in her lap, she felt as if someone had dumped cold water all over her. Sitting directly across the table and gazing at her was Harry. Quickly she looked down again, not wanting discern the look he was giving her.

"It's been ages," said Hermione, starting to pass numerous dishes around the table for Ginny to scoop onto her plate. "You missed Harry talking about Australia and the other countries he visited, but I'm sure he'd be happy to tell you later. That's a beautiful shirt, by the way, where did you get it? Oh—and my mum and dad came for dinner—"

"Hermione," Ron interrupted, spooning some stuffing onto her plate, "hasn't anyone ever told you not to talk with your mouth full?"

"Ron," Hermione said patiently, "my mouth _isn't_ full."

"So fill it." Ron grinned cheekily and held up her fork, which held a massive amount of stuffing.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but accepted the mouthful. Ginny caught the pink in Ron's ears as he darted a cautious look towards Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who still seemed to be explaining snow blowers to her father. She couldn't help but smile a little at the fascination in his face, and vowed later to show him the portable CD player she'd borrowed from Joe. At least her father wouldn't start questioning about Joe, if she was dating him, or if she planned on marrying a Muggle (which would excite him).

"Those two are disgusting," said George in Ginny's ears, nodding towards Hermione and Ron, who were whispering to each other. "Potatoes?"

Ginny accepted the bowl and scooped mashed potatoes onto her plate. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harry was still watching her, apparently not interested in the turkey in front of him. Then she glanced down the table towards her mother and saw that she was still eyeing Ginny with a deep frown while nodding to whatever Bill was saying.

"_I_ happen to love this shade," said George, following her gaze. He tugged at her long hair, studying it. "Sort of spunky."

"Going for the Christmas tree look this year, are you?" Ginny raised her eyebrows at his vibrant green spikes.

George grinned widely. "We could improve upon your own look. I happen to think blue streaks would be _lovely_."

"Nah, I'm thinking black next. Pass the rolls?" Although she felt decidedly more lighthearted bantering with George, she couldn't shake the miserable feeling in her gut. The food smelled delicious, but she had no appetite. Her mother was still staring at her, everyone seemed to be casting her worried looks, even George, and she could still feel Harry studying her.

_I just want to get out of here_, Ginny sighed inwardly. _Away from all of this. _She had been saving her earnings from The Sipper and Flourish and Blotts, not knowing what she was saving for until a couple of weeks ago. She didn't know exactly when or where, but she was going to get away from England. It wouldn't cure all of her pain, but put some distance between them at least.

"Dad," Ginny said quietly as she buttered her roll. "Where're Charlie and Percy?"

"Charlie had an emergency with a sick dragon, apparently," said Arthur, having finally been satisfied with snow blowers, "and Percy's having dinner with Penelope Clearwater."

"Oh." Ginny hadn't known her older brother ever healed the rift between him and the Ravenclaw girl. Unable to stop herself, she looked up at Harry, feeling guilty and sick.

Harry had been saying something to Ron, but caught her eye and stopped. Questioning green eyes burned into her, and suddenly Ginny couldn't breathe as images from the past flashed before her. Harry hurt, angry, sad, happy . . . but most of all, Harry's face as he leaned close at midnight—but then it transformed into Harry the day she lied to him in the infirmary.

Ginny gasped and closed her eyes. She was going to lose it unless she got control of herself. Why couldn't she just remain aloof and sarcastic as she had been? It was beyond her anymore to pretend that everything was fine, but couldn't she at least hide _this_?

"Ginny?" said George quietly from her right.

"I'm fine," she bit out. She opened her eyes, carefully keeping them trained on her plate. Out of the corner of her vision, she could see that only her father, George, Fred, and Harry had noticed her spasm. Swallowing hard, she tried to gather her wits. All she wanted to do was flee.

"Chew well before swallowing," Fred chided. "Didn't Mum teach you that when you were two?"

Ginny tossed him a scowl. Unwarranted, her eyes slid to Harry, and she lost any semblance of control. "Don't you know it's rather rude to stare?" she said harsher than she intended.

Harry's eyebrows shot up, but then immediately furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but Molly's sharp voice cut him off.

"Ginny Weasley!"

It was definitely time to flee.

Without glancing at her mother, she scooted her chair back and tossed her napkin on her plate. "Excuse me." And then she was out of the kitchen and going up the steps toward her room. When she reached the first landing, she paused, her body shaking too hard to stand up straight. She leaned against the wall.

"Honestly, Mrs. Granger, she's usually a very sweet girl . . ."

Ginny closed her eyes and wished her nails could dig into the wall. Sweet? When was the last time she had been sweet? How could she be sweet and innocent when she had nearly brought Tom Riddle back to life, nearly sacrificed herself to him a second time, and _killed_ a man? Sweet people didn't betray those they loved! Sweet people didn't fool friends or lead them on and then freak out.

Sweet people knew who they were and what to do with themselves.

"Merlin, what's happening to me?" she whispered to the wall. Something told her she should be in tears, but she lacked the capacity. Not even the soft sound of footsteps on the stairs could bring her to react.

"Ginny? Are you okay?"

She let out a short, derisive laugh.

"Funny you should ask that," she muttered. Her hands shook as Harry suddenly stood before her, blocking passage further upstairs. She rolled along the wall until her back was against it and she could face the opposite wall. Casting a sidelong glance, she studied him, still feeling too unstable to leave the wall's support.

In the dimmer lighting, he seemed taller, older in the shadow, but still held an awkwardness that she knew she caused. Standing quite still, his arms limp at his sides, he only looked at her, apparently quite lost and uncertain. But in control. Jealousy sparked in Ginny. She wanted what he had: the ability to escape, the fact that he knew who he was and seemed so in control. Rationality told her it had not always been this way and that she didn't even _know_ if it was now, but such thoughts were less bearable.

Obviously uncomfortable with the silence, Harry finally spoke. "Ron said you broke up with Dean. Again."

"Well, Ron's got a big mouth," Ginny spat. "And we weren't together _to_ break up." She frowned and turned her head sharply towards Harry. "Hang on—how did _he_ know?"

"Colin Creevey."

A Bat-Bogey Hex would be just the trick to straighten that boy out, she thought, feeling anger seep into her already tumultuous emotions. Ginny shook her head and let it hit the wall again. She wanted to push past Harry to her room, but she couldn't move. Harry was _here_, right in front of her, and she wanted nothing more than to bury her head in his chest and hide.

"Please, Harry," she whispered. "Just let me pass."

Harry took a step forward, but he didn't pass her for the stairs. She couldn't avoid his concerned gaze and felt even dizzier. "Not until I know you'll be all right."

"Harry," Ginny said shakily, "I haven't been all right in a long time."

"Why?" he asked quietly.

Ginny shook her head.

Harry stood there, staring at her, his eyes unreadable. Then he sighed, shook his head, and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry," he said, and then started for the stairs.

Ginny watched his retreating back, urgency screaming at her. "Harry—wait—"

Harry turned on the second step, and she saw a guarded hope in his eyes that made her sicker than ever. She wanted to turn and run from it, but her instincts were overwhelming her, her brain forming an idea without her permission.

"Yes?" said Harry.

"Are you leaving again after Christmas?"

"After the New Year."

"Oh." Ginny's heart was pounding. It was ludicrous. This would only bring her more pain, but everything deep inside was urging, pleading, forcing her into an action she wasn't sure she could take. Harry stood poised on the stairs, ready to start down them again, and she knew if she didn't act now, she never would.

"I've got to get out of here, Harry."

Her words seemed disembodied, to come from somewhere else. Harry took another step, but not down.

"I'm really messed up," she went on, feeling the words spill out of her as he stepped closer. She didn't notice that she'd taken a step away from the wall toward him. Unable to look him in the eye, she focused to his right, but she could see his sleeve at the edge of her narrowed vision. "I have to get out of here. I've been planning on leaving—to travel or something—just to get away from here so I can figure things out. I meant to go alone, but . . ." Ginny swallowed, not believing her own words, wanting to stop now and flee to her room, but she couldn't. She had always been impulsive, but this went beyond that. "I _wanted_ to go alone, to get away from everyone and everything, but now—it's just—I mean—it would be . . ." She trailed off, feeling a great void open before her.

"Lonely?" Harry finished softly.

Ginny looked up at him, feeling dizzy, and sucked in a deep breath. "Y-yes . . . lonely."

Harry's eyes were dark, his face unreadable. "You want to come back to Australia with me?" he said slowly, quietly.

"I don't care where, I just have to get away from this."

"Why?"

Ginny stared at him, at his guarded, cautious look. How could she tell him why? How could she tell him she was slipping? That she was setting herself up for more pain, that she didn't care anymore about anything _except_ the pain? She knew only that she was drowning here and that she couldn't stay any longer to save money.

"I can't tell you, Harry," she said softly, dropping her eyes to the floor, "except I have to get away. If you say no, I understand. I can't even stand myself. But I'll leave here, anyway, alone if I must."

Harry said nothing for a long moment, and Ginny didn't trust herself to speak again. It seemed she had said more to Harry on this landing than she had in the past two years, and she was exhausted, confused, and scared. Already she could feel the pain that would come if Harry refused; but was it greater or less than the agony of being constantly in his presence?

"Okay," Harry said quietly, startling her.

"Okay," Ginny breathed. One hurt had been spared. She looked up, but her eye caught something above him.

Quickly, she lowered her gaze, but Harry had caught her mistake and looked up as well. His left eye seemed to twitch. "Mistletoe," he mumbled. "I hate those things."

"Mum puts'em up," Ginny said tightly. "Cursed things. They're all over the house."

"Yeah, Ron and Hermione noticed," Harry said, seemingly as an afterthought. He was looking back down at her, face clouded with emotion. "Never had much luck with those."

Ginny bit her lip, wanting to taste blood to cover her guilt. She had learned that Harry's first kiss had been under the mistletoe from a miserable Cho Chang, but his thoughts were probably where hers were. Two Christmases ago, they had been caught under mistletoe in the Gryffindor common room; Halloween and November had been too fresh, too painful, and the cursed plant had been salt in the wound.

"Ginny . . ."

Harry was so close; she could feel the heat coming from his body. She shivered, fighting the emotions rising in her. No doubt by the way he said her name, he still had feelings for her. _I can't let him, I'll break_.

"It's not an obligation," Ginny said stiffly, stepping back. "Just a silly tradition. Goodnight, Harry." And then she whirled around and fled to her bedroom, not stopping until she was safely locked behind her door.

Reeling, she ripped open her rucksack for the borrowed CD player. She didn't want to think about what had just happened or what _could _happen. Drowning in the music with the lights out, she was able to be safely lost.

Lying sleeplessly on the cot in Ron's room, Harry ruminated as he stared up at the faintly glowing Chudley Cannons posters reflecting the moonlight off the fallen snow. After the defeat of Voldemort, life had failed to become simpler. Those seven years had been full of toil and pain, but looking back, Harry reckoned that it had been rather organized and somewhat straightforward: he had his enemy and his friends. Surviving Voldemort had been a purpose he didn't need to question, whether it be for himself, his friends, or people he never knew and probably never would. Life, although deadly and painful, had been simple.

Even after Voldemort had been defeated, life had presented itself with another task that Harry had plunged into unquestioningly. If he poured himself into reconstruction and rebirth, he wouldn't need to question or feel the emptiness inside. Unfortunately—or was it by fortune?—Remus had cottoned on to the way Harry had tried to drain himself, and so Harry had been sent away to recuperate.

At first Harry had reacted badly to such a suggestion. Ridiculous ideas had crossed his mind, lending distorted interpretations to everyone's concern. Now that he had killed—_helped end_—Voldemort's reign, no one needed him. Everyone thought he was too emotionally unstable to handle any of the serious duties needed in the reconstruction. Having endured the Dursleys, his parents' and Sirius' death, Harry had battled with an acute sense of abandonment, and the Weasleys' and Remus' push for his sabbatical had been just as wrenching.

Once he had been away for a couple of months, however, he began to understand his friends' reasoning. Disentangled from the politics of the Ministry, the fame that had taunted him since he had become aware of it, and the heavy mood permeating the wizard world, Harry started to remember what it was like to be _Harry_, not The Boy Who Lived.

Drifting from place to place, Harry quickly realized just how much he didn't like to be alone. Although he knew one isn't to be defined by friends and company kept, Harry could feel in their absence just how much his friends truly meant to him and shaped part of who he was. Despite yearning for Ron, Hermione, and the Weasleys, Harry was compelled to experience other aspects of life than what had been offered to him in England. It wasn't so much the location as the actual atmosphere. He wasn't stifled or judged: just some British bloke wandering the world.

At some point the wandering would have to end and he would have to face the "real world." His money wouldn't last forever, even on the odd jobs he'd picked up in a couple of countries. Harry knew he would need to find a job, and although he was enjoying his near anonymity, he would someday soon return to England to live. Unfortunately, deciding on what he was going to do with his life brought on more questions, and Harry was rather torn. He knew every single Weasley, Hermione, and Remus would each tell him in turn that he should do whatever he wanted to do and not feel obligated by noble duty. However as draining as his "nobility" had been in the past, Harry couldn't help but _want_ to do something significant and helpful. Perhaps The Boy Who Lived was permanently burned into him like the scar on his forehead, so why should he try to escape it?

"Damn vicious circle, isn't it?" Harry muttered wryly to the dozing Cannons players. He sighed and placed his hands behind his head. _That_ was one thing he would like to do, had happily daydreamed about at Hogwarts: play professional Quidditch.

But was it _real_? Having been through what he had—and Harry didn't like to analyze or measure it—playing a game as a life seemed almost petty, trivial. After all, it really was just a game. A game he truly enjoyed . . . a game that held an enticing purity for him.

Few things seemed pure to Harry anymore.

He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

"Ginny," he whispered, unaccustomed to her name rolling off his tongue. It was lost in Ron's loud snores. Harry's thoughts fell back to only hours before.

"_I'm really messed up, Harry."_ Her pinched, drawn face floated before him, extremely pale even in shadow; all her features had been sharply distinct but blurred by the torment pulling at her eyes and mouth. _"I'm slipping . . ."_

With a growl of frustration, Harry rolled off the cot to his feet. He swayed uncertainly for a moment, and then left Ron's room. No way would he find peace or sleep in there. Honestly, did Ron have a bloody cold?

Having acquired knowledge of all the creaky spots, Harry moved quietly down the staircase. If he was going to stay up all night mulling over Ginny's transformation and plea, he was going to have food readily available. And he just needed to _move_.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Harry noticed the faint glow coming from the never-ending fire in the living room hearth. The idea of staring into the flickering flames until his eyes burned seemed strangely appealing. How many times had he lost himself in the Gryffindor Tower flames?

Harry had taken two steps into the largest room of The Burrow when he froze. Someone was on the couch, her long hair splayed over the pillows. Was she sleeping or staring into the fire? Harry shifted uncertainly on his feet. Did he want her awake or asleep? He would have to confront her about the interlude in the hall at some point, but Harry was open to waiting a few more hours.

_After all, Hermione always said I was a born procrastinator,_ Harry thought dryly. Then he frowned. Hermione had always tried to break him and Ron of that "horrible habit."

At any rate, nothing was going to come of him standing there. Inwardly sighing, Harry approached the couch, his stomach tightening with dread and anticipation, and then it disappeared in relief.

Ginny was sound asleep. Harry's restless nerves softened as he gazed down at her, his eyes roaming over her. In the gentle glow of the fire, Ginny's skin seemed luminescent instead of pale, the tiredness lost in flickering shadow. She'd washed off her dark eye make-up and changed into a cotton nightgown, and even though her hair seemed even darker in the lowered lighting, Harry could see the Ginny he remembered. The tightness he'd seen around her eye, through her whole body, reminded him of someone holding on to the very edge, fingers slipping, just before deciding to give up, let go. It scared him.

She had not reappeared after dinner. Hermione had whispered when he'd come out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth that Ginny had been laying on her bed, eyes closed, and listening to Muggle headphones. Studying her now, Harry figured she must have come down to eat or something after everyone else had gone to bed. By the way she was propped against the lumpy pillows, her head tilted slightly towards the back of the couch, she had accidentally fallen asleep. She looked relaxed, blissful and serene, asleep.

Harry's eyes traveled from her still face and down her neck. A deep longing to brush his fingers against the lightly freckled skin overcame him and he stretched out a hand. When was the last time he'd touched her? Even a nudge for her to pass the orange juice? With trembling fingers, he felt the long, dark auburn hair falling over her shoulder, wishing it were fiery copper.

_I shouldn't touch her if she doesn't want me to_, Harry realized, quickly withdrawing his hand. The longing only deepened, becoming painful. Had he known it would be like this, he would have stayed in Australia . . .

Casting about for distraction, Harry's eyes fastened on the book resting open in Ginny's lap. Her freckled hand loosely covered a fountain pen as the book slipped out of the other. Curious, Harry slowly edged the book from her hands, glancing warily at her face when she mumbled something and turned her head slightly. Fortunately, she remained asleep, and Harry quickly glanced down at the open pages, and felt instantly guilty.

It wasn't a book.

Nor was it a diary, but Harry still felt ashamed to be looking at it. The pages opened to him seemed quite impersonal as they were scrawled with numbers and symbols, but Ginny had scribbled comments around the edge, top, and bottom. He squinted at the numbers and realized he was looking at her finances, which, judging by her comments, weren't even near his depleting bank account.

One scrawl caught his eye. _The numbers ring true—Why am I even doing this? _Under the line in even larger letters was _out Out OUT!_

Harry glanced back down at Ginny. What was she trying to get away from? It was the next biggest question on his mind right after _What happened to her?_ Harry couldn't quite answer the second, but he had a general feeling of where and when Ginny's change had begun. The deadened, unreachable look had settled into her eyes that day in the infirmary . . .

Not wanting to think about that day, Harry turned a page back, and saw not numbers but words spilling across it.

_What messes come about! When life seems clear in its self-inflicted slavery and monotony, impulsion ruins everything. How can someone be compelled to be placed in even more pain, come closer to the torturer? Agony has become too inviting, beckoning. It drains under the falsehood of bringing life and feeling to overwhelming passivity. But even passivity is a lie. Telling yourself you don't feel, that you don't deserve to feel, is just as ridiculous and forged because you do deserve to feel that ache, that burn. _

_Perhaps by bringing the pain closer, like an enemy, it can be conquered. But pain is friend as much as foe, and so it must be embraced as both. Without it, I am alone, non-existent._

"God, Ginny," Harry swore softly, closing the book with a snap. He had somehow reached the floor, his back against the couch. Not sure what he just read, but feeling even more somber by it, Harry rested his head against the edge of the cushion. He could hear her deep, steady breathing, and closed his eyes, matching his to it. How could someone sleeping so peacefully write something like that?

She suddenly let out a sigh and Harry lifted his head as she shifted on the couch, turning onto her side and curling up like a cat. Long hair fell across her face, and Harry knelt, gently pushing it away. "I'm sorry, Ginny," he whispered, letting his fingertips stray to her cheek and along her jaw line. Compelled, he lowered his lips and gently kissed her forehead, suddenly understanding her disturbing passage.

Then Harry took the old quilt off the rocking chair by the window and draped it over her. He placed the book and pen neatly on the floor beside her, again feeling guilty for intruding. Again he touched her cheek, but resisted another kiss. He had trespassed too much tonight. As quietly as he'd come, Harry stole up the stairs, knowing he would find no sleep tonight.


	8. What They Have

Chapter Eight

"_What They Have"_

"Oof."

Generally, Ginny did not greet early mornings with a mumbled _oof_—she preferred to swear groggily and roll over before something—alarm clock—or someone—Alyson—forced her out of bed. What brought her instantly out of bed was the fact she'd nearly fallen out of bed—no, the couch—and only her instincts had brought her arm out to stop her. When she rolled onto her back, Ginny yawned and rubbed her eyes, feeling much disoriented and distinctly agitated.

Obviously, she had fallen asleep, Ginny thought, snuggling under the blanket and vaguely wondering about the hour; it must be early, no one was moving about the house—_where did the blanket come from?_

Ginny sat up in alarm, her last memory being of writing in her journal—which wasn't where she'd left it.

Panicking, she tossed off the quilt and swung her legs around. Her left foot landed on something flat, solid, and leathery. With a small squeak of relief, she swept it up, her heart pounding both in relief and suspicion. What if whoever put the quilt on her read anything?

"Merlin," Ginny swore softly, turning to her last entry. She hadn't thought about charming her journal in a long while, and she had been too distracted last night.

Last night . . . Ginny rubbed the crick in the back of her neck, thinking. It was odd, but after drowning herself in angry, angst-ridden music, and then writing in her journal, Ginny felt calmer, reflective. Even if Harry changed his mind between today and whenever he returned to Australia, Ginny knew she would leave, anyway, and being completely, utterly alone might be okay, too. She knew now, no matter what, she had a direction, even if it simply was Out.

"And I'm not running away," she whispered, index finger stroking the bind. How could she be possibly running away if she was placing herself even closer to Harry, and thus, the pain of knowing she'd betrayed him? Although she knew it was as foolish and delusional as her naïve assumptions before she'd broken under Voldemort, Ginny felt slightly braver, more confident, in this.

And so, this admittedly deranged but purposeful Ginny neatly folded the quilt and returned it to the rocker. She wasn't sure of the exact time, but knew that it was before seven-thirty, because, later years at the Burrow, her mother had decided that breakfast should be served deep into the morning so she could have a lie-in. Not a single Weasley had disagreed. After all, it meant they could sleep in all the more.

Which meant Ginny had a probably an hour or more of peace and quiet.

The Madness of Myself:

- What am I doing? Apparently placing myself directly into contact with source of pain, i.e., Harry. This may be an act of stupidity and self-affliction, but maybe it's because I need to face the pain directly to absolve it. No, not absolve. It can't be forgiven; it is what it is, I can't change it. Maybe I'm trying to "face my demons" so I can move on. Yeah, moving on. Bloody hell, it's still probably self-affliction. Which is a shameful thing to do – but aren't I already ashamed?

And I'm getting away from here. I'm not running away. How can I be running away when I'm leaping into the pit?

- What is wrong with me to be doing this? First off, something is definitely wrong with making lists about yourself in a journal you have tried not to make a diary or hold anything easily identifiable with yourself. Oh well, another thing to add to my list of failures. It's getting quite long. I am a weak, stupid, self-defeating simpleton who has fallen into that entrancing trap of depression and degradation, and so I'm torturing myself by placing myself in Harry's presence. Basically, I'm banging my head against a brick wall. Swell.

- ­What am I going to do? Wish I knew. I guess just be my wonderful, cheerful self that was the life of the party last night. Try not to break down in front of Harry. Leave as soon as possible. Keep my distance from Harry, even though he is being a remarkably tolerable gentleman that really should toss me off somewhere bleak. How am I going to stay 'normal' with Harry? We haven't ever been normal. And now we never will.

"Oooh, that smells _delicious_," Hermione groaned, stretching in her cot. She had been rubbing her eyes groggily when Ginny had entered after a shower and journaling. Now the enticing aroma of cooking eggs, bacon, and flapjacks wafted up the stairs. As Hermione sat up and pushed off her blankets, Ginny had to stifle a giggle—Hermione's hair resembled a caricature afro. "Happy Christmas!" the older girl yawned.

"Happy Christmas," Ginny replied, already rummaging through her satchel for her baggy jeans and last year's jumper. She was debating about wearing any eye makeup or not. It seemed pointless, she wasn't going anywhere but home in the afternoon, but she felt—it was ridiculous, really—safer with it on.

Hermione left for the bathroom, and Ginny changed with a sense of relief. Her friend from Hogwarts wasn't being inquisitive or snoopy like everyone else. Perhaps Harry hadn't said anything to Hermione or Ron.

Ginny bit her lip, suddenly nauseated by the scent of breakfast. _How was she going to face Harry now?_ Earlier she'd been so focused on leaving England that she had spaced her ticket—Harry—off!

"Oh, bloody hell," she swore to her jumper, pulling it over her head. Maybe she could just stay up in her room again; no one had come for her last night, so why would today be any different? _Because it is Christmas, you idiot, and I bet Harry would come inquire after that display last night._

Ginny shuddered at the very idea. If she couldn't handle today, there was no way she could handle Australia with him.

Taking an enormously deep breath, Ginny finished dressing and then applied her eye make-up. Just liner and mascara today, no need for actual shadow. She loved how she could reveal her dark moods with it, yet still hide behind the masking edge around her eyes. By the time she had begun detangling her hair, Hermione returned, a towel wrapped around her head.

"You have no idea how lucky you are," Hermione sighed, gesturing at Ginny's long, straight locks. "If it wasn't for magic to keep it in order, I'd probably spend hours every morning on mine."

Ginny smirked in the mirror, briefly catching Hermione's joking look. "I used to envy your color, though."

Hermione rolled her eyes as she towel dried her hair. "It's just brown. Nothing special."

"To each her own, then." Ginny studied her hair in the mirror. It really was getting long, nearly down to her waist. Perhaps she'd cut it soon.

Ginny fussed with her quilt as Hermione cast quick-drying spells in her hair and brushed it out. She couldn't help but feel the other girl's eyes studying her surreptitiously. Although Hermione had seemed friendly and less dramatic than everyone else last night, Ginny knew that she'd taken her school friend by surprise. Hell, she'd shocked everyone but Fred and George.

Just as Ginny was thinking of saying something about Hermione's not-really-inconspicuous staring, the other girl blurted, "What happened between you and Harry last night?"

Immediately, Hermione gasped and dropped her wand to cover her mouth. "I—I mean, oh bullocks!"

"_What?!"_ Ginny whirled around, her momentary punch-to-the-stomach forgotten. She stared at Hermione's reddening face, trying hard not to grin disbelievingly.

"I said—oh, forget it—it's not my place—"

"Did you just say 'bullocks'?"

"What—no—" Hermione wringed her hands in frustration. She bit her lip, dropped her eyes, and then sighed resignedly. "Well, _yes_, but don't tell—"

"RON!"

_Oh, revenge is so sweet_, Ginny cackled gleefully as she bolted up the last set of rickety stairs to her youngest brother's room, Hermione gibbering at her heels. "Ron, you bugger!" she hollered, pounding on the door. "Get up, you lazy arse!" In the past, she had unabashedly barged into his offensively orange room, but had learned one unfortunate occasion that wasn't very wise anymore.

"Ginny!" Hermione wheezed, coming to the top step. "Please! I'll never hear the end of it!"

"Precisely! RON!"

"Ginny! It's because I asked about Harry, isn't it!"

"_Ronald Weas—"_

"What the _bloody_ hell do you think you're doing?" The door swung open, revealing a shirtless, flannel bottomed Ron with very bedraggled red hair haloed non-flatteringly by the Chudley Posters behind him.

Ginny beamed at him, feeling rather invigorated by being an annoying little sister. "Happy Christmas, Ronniekins! I just thought I'd let you know that your lover said something quite vulgar just now."

Ron, looking extremely annoyed, suddenly brightened. He turned a teasing smirk on Hermione, who was glaring openly at Ginny. "Oh, really? Hermione?"

"Last time I spend Christmas with you lot," Hermione muttered, crossing her arms.

Ron's grin widened. "What did you say?"

"No." Hermione turned up her nose and sniffed, her cheeks starting to flush again. Ginny bit back a giggle—it was just like being back at Hogwarts.

"Come on," Ron wheedled, stepping into the hall. He tilted Hermione's chin up, and instantly her stubborn jaw softened. "I can coax it out of you, you know . . ."

"Spare me," Ginny groaned, rolling her eyes and turning away. She felt a pang not of disgust but envy. Her eyes cast into the bedroom, and she instantly regretted her glee at Hermione's profanity. She had unwittingly brought herself right into Harry's midst. Luckily, he was rubbing his face and casting about for his glasses.

"Morning breath!" Hermione warned. Ginny turned back to find Hermione pushing Ron away with a barely concealed grimace.

Ron, however, chuckled and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Tell me." Hermione mumbled something and tried to step away, but Ron held fast. "What was that? I seem to have gone deaf all of a sudden."

"Bullocks," Hermione muttered, looking down at her feet.

"What?" Ron cupped an ear and leaned down.

"BULLOCKS!"

"My my, such language!"

"Tut, tut!"

"I never heard such vocabulary from a Head Girl!"

Ginny, Hermione, and Ron whirled around to find Fred, George, and Bill grinning madly from the staircase, all looking as if they'd dragged themselves out of bed. Ginny glanced at Hermione, who was turning a rather Weasley shade of red. But then she took a deep breath and rolled her eyes.

"Honestly!" Then she stomped past five Weasleys and Ginny heard her door shut forcefully.

"Well, that was lovely," Ron said cheerfully, tugging on Ginny's hair.

"What's going on?" Harry asked blearily, coming to the door.

"Oh, things are just back to normal," said Ron, winking at Ginny.

Ginny bristled and saddened at once. What business was it of his if she wasn't her 'normal' self? And how could be possibly think one outburst set everything in order? "You're an idiot," she told Ron as calmly as she could, then turned and headed downstairs to breakfast.

"I honestly don't understand that girl!" said Ron, raking his hair in frustration as Harry followed him down the stairs fifteen minutes later.

"Hey, she's your girlfriend," Harry said lightly, although he knew whom Ron meant. Hopefully he could steer Ron away from something he wasn't quite up to talking about. They had opened their presents in an awkward silence after Ginny and Hermione had jarred them awake. Last night's incident still sat too freshly in their minds to be discussed with her cheerful-then-abrupt manner this morning. Harry had been hoping Ron would avoid the topic, so he didn't have to brush off his questions about what had happened on the stairs last night.

"No, I mean Ginny," Ron said in a low voice, pausing on the second landing. He turned to Harry, frowning worriedly. "Last night isn't the only thing. She's been distant ever since she got back from Hogwarts, and she quit Flourish and Blotts, which is _really_ weird, because she said she liked that job. And then that thing with Dean and her dark make-up . . . I don't know, Harry, I'm really worried about her."

Harry just stared at Ron. What could he say? _"Yes, Ron, your sister seems a bit off her rocker."_ He could see her, as she was last night, clinging to a wall. It was not a vision he wanted to give Ron.

"I don't know, mate," he finally said, when Ron seemed to want an answer.

Ron sighed and shrugged his shoulders. "You'd think everything would be great with Voldemort gone."

"Yeah," Harry mumbled, not wanting to discuss it. It was Christmas morning, he was at the Burrow, and the last thing he wanted to think about was Voldemort. "C'mon, let's go eat. I'm starving."

When they entered the kitchen, everyone, including Percy and Charlie, who were shedding their cloaks to Mr. Weasley, instantly greeted them. The Grangers were thanking Fred and George for their gift of chocolates, and Hermione was shaking her head vigorously at her parents while shooting the twins a vicious glare. Ginny was setting the butter dish down by the muffins, looking almost sixteen in her blue jumper. She seemed to be the only one not enthused by Harry and Ron's entrance and turned away to grab the salt and pepper shakers without making eye contact.

Harry felt somewhat relieved that she hadn't acknowledged him. He wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to do after last night. Obviously she couldn't ignore him forever if she was going to Australia with him, but didn't they need to, well, discuss it?

"Sit, everyone!" Mrs. Weasley ordered cheerfully, her cheeks flushed from cooking and eggnog.

Harry sat between Ron and Charlie, noticing that Ginny had sat on the other side of Hermione, probably to prevent him from watching her again.

"Harry," said Charlie, passing him the plate of bangers, "have you had a chance to see any of the Australian dragons?"

"Well, no, but one started a brush fire a couple of weeks ago . . ." Harry went on to describe how Muggle Australians often accounted their fires as a norm for droughts, which made an easy cover for the Department of Magical Species Protection and Regulation.

He had just finished when Ron leaned toward Hermione and whispered, "Bullocks."

Harry watched Hermione's mouth turn very thin. "You are an imbecile, Ronald Weasley," she said out of the corner of her mouth.

"You must like imbeciles, then," said Ron, "or last night you wouldn't have—"

"_Ron!_" Hermione was definitely blushing now as she jumped between glaring meaningfully at Ron and casting her parents nervous looks.

Harry rolled his eyes across the table at Fred and George, but felt awkward with Ron and Hermione's banter. It had been awhile since he'd felt like the third wheel. He was glad they were happy and in love, and usually he didn't feel left out or unwanted, but witnessing their closeness made him feel envious and lonely.

Fred made a kissing-face at Ron, and then looked down the table toward Ginny. "I say, you up for a game of Quidditch?"

"Yeah," said Bill, grinning. "I haven't gotten to see you play properly."

"And we could do four and three to a side, unless Hermione and Percy _do_ shock us all and play," Fred said, sweeping his eyes over the tables. "Wait, let's see—we _could_ do Seekers, you know, with Ginny and Harry, and then a Keeper for each side and two Chasers—oh, wait, that won't work out—Okay, _one_ Keeper, and Ron'll just have to be for both sides. And Hermione can charm snowballs into Bludgers—"

"Maybe I don't _want_ to play Seeker," Ginny cut in, setting her fork down.

"Be a good sport, even if you have to play against the youngest Seeker in a century," said Fred, tossing Harry a wink. "And you do have a chance, you know, since it's not a real Snitch."

"Maybe I just don't want to play Quidditch today."

"But you play a side!" Ron protested, joining in with Fred.

"Yes, so maybe I would like a holiday from it!"

"_A holiday from Quidditch?"_ Ron, Fred, and George cried.

Harry's mouth dropped open, but he quickly shut it. He had a feeling he was the real reason why Ginny didn't want to play—_but then why the bloody hell was she asking to go to Australia?!_

"And anyway," said Ginny, "I didn't bring my broom."

"Harry," said Ron, turning to him. "Help us out, will you?"

"Oh no," said Harry, putting up his hands. "I am _not_ getting into a Seeker battle with Ginny again." He said it lightly, but felt leaden. At the moment he didn't give a flaming bit about Quidditch, except that Ginny was clearly bailing out to avoid him.

"Just when you think you can count on a bloke . . ." Fred shook his head sadly.

"Look," said Hermione soothingly, "I should have someone help me with the Bludgers. Would you like to help me, Ginny?"

Harry leaned slightly around Ron to see Ginny, under the pretense of reaching for a dish. She was gazing calculatingly at Hermione, leaving Harry to wonder if there wasn't something going on between the two girls. Finally, she nodded, "All right, then," and returned to her plate without a glance at the others.

Harry bit back a sigh and asked Ron to pass the rolls.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

Ginny mentally berated herself as she followed George and the other Quidditch players traipsing through the snow to the back paddock. She glared at the scarlet robe stretched across his winter cloak, irked by the faded rearing lion.

Today was supposed to be okay, normal even. She hadn't been pretending to be normal or trying for normal, but she had wanted to avoid swerving in the opposite direction, as she had last night. She didn't want everyone upset, but she knew she wasn't going to try beyond nature to please them all, either. So why had she refused Quidditch?

Glancing up past George's bobbing shoulder, Ginny saw Harry's messy head bent as he stomped carefully through the snow, Ron a pace ahead of him. No, she wasn't playing Quidditch because of Harry, but she didn't know exactly _why_. At the time, her insecurity had led her to believe that Fred and George were attempting to _get_ her to be 'normal ol' Ginny,' but now that she thought about it, what was so patronizing about her brothers wanting her to play Quidditch?

Nothing.

And now everyone was quite sure she was deranged; they were busy shooting each other looks when they thought she didn't notice.

It was Ron's fault. Sort of. He'd immediately put her on the defense that morning. And now she couldn't seem to get out of it.

"Since when did you all start using snowballs as Bludgers?" Hermione asked, quickening her step to walk beside Ginny as they entered the paddock.

"Oh, my fifth year. Over Christmas." Ginny wrinkled her nose at Fred and George, who were scrutinizing the huddle of men, obviously wondering how to divide sides. "I was mad at the twins, so while we were all trying to cheer Harry up with a game, I just started charming snowballs. Dobby was a wonderful influence, you know."

Hermione chuckled and stooped down to scoop up a handful of snow. "It's good today. Wet enough to stick."

Ginny nodded. Although Hermione wasn't nearly as dangerous in a snowball fight as Ron or even Harry, she was definitely going to be an asset with her wand.

"Harry, want to be Keeper or Chaser?" said Fred. "No point in being Seeker against yourself."

Ginny bit back a growl. It wasn't as if playing Seeker in the paddock was exciting. Hermione would just have to toss in the 'Snitch' when she felt like it, and it'd be up to her to control it so it didn't merely fall back to the ground. Where was the challenge in that?

"Doesn't matter," Harry shrugged, pushing his glasses up his nose. Ginny wasn't sure, but she thought he glanced quickly at her before rubbing imaginary dirt off his Firebolt.

"I'll do Keeper, if that's all right?" George said, the Quaffle tucked under his arm—a deflated Muggle football that had been given a new life by the Weasleys.

Ginny blocked out their muttering and set about making a decent place for her and Hermione to sit. She conjured a cushion for each on top the snow and settled down as the men mounted their brooms and kicked off into the air. Hermione followed her example, wand out, her cheeks pink from the cold and anticipation. Ginny rolled and packed large snowballs and stacked them around her as she explained to Hermione that Snow Bludgers were simple enough if you wanted to be brutal with _Wingardium Leviosa._

"Oh, when do we start?" Hermione asked eagerly, a slightly vindictive glint in her eyes as she stared up at Ron's makeshift goal hoops on the west side of the paddock.

Ginny snorted. "Oh, whenever. Although, Hermione, it isn't very nice to take the Keeper out." She paused and scrutinized Ron, who was making a foolish gesture at Harry, who was coming at him with the Quaffle. "I won't stop you, of course."

Hermione giggled and pointed her wand at a rather large, solidly packed snowball. It hovered a moment before her, then rocketed into the air in a beautiful, direct vector towards Ron. Just as Harry wound his arm back to attempt a goal, the snowball collided spectacularly with Ron's face, blinding him and nearly sending him off his broomstick. Harry let out a whoop as the checkered ball soared through the right loop.

"ARGH! HERMIONE!"

"Now we're even!" Hermione shouted back, already another snowball hovering just above the pile.

Ron swore and dived down for the Quaffle, and then tossed it to Bill, who set off down the paddock toward George, but he was intercepted by Fred.

"Who do you want to hit?" Hermione asked after her next snowball missed Fred.

Ginny shrugged as she packed a ball. "Doesn't matter. They're all prats." She could feel Hermione studying her, but refused to meet the older girl's stare. Her earlier ire at Hermione didn't sting nearly so much, but Ginny wasn't about to indulge her. Wanting to break the silence, she launched a snowball at George, because he hadn't been hit yet.

"Isn't Ron a wonderful Keeper?" said Hermione. "Once he forgets that people are watching him, I mean." Ron had just blocked Fred's throw.

"Uh-huh." Ginny sent a Bludger at her youngest older brother, but he dodged it and waggled a finger at her. She dearly hoped Hermione wasn't going to get all conversational about her love life. Usually she would have enjoyed it, because teasing Hermione was rather gratifying (Ron _was_ right about some things), but today she had no desire to discuss love, boyfriends, or anything related. Before long the older Gryffindor would inquire about Ginny's love life, which recently involved the very messy fiasco with Dean, and the even bigger fiasco with Harry—but Hermione didn't know about that . . .

Ginny sighed. She dipped her wand into the snow, tracing scribbles to keep from sending too many snowballs into the air. Inexplicably, her gaze drifted up until she found Harry trying to knock the Quaffle away from Bill.

What was she going to do about Harry?

She'd have to talk to him before she left today to discuss plans for their departure. Her stomach flipped and tightened with excitement and dread. _Australia._ With Harry. She shivered and stopped tracing in the snow.

Getting Harry alone to discuss these plans would not be easy. Nor did she want to be alone with Harry quite yet. She needed to prepare for that. If she did manage to get him alone at The Burrow, where no one could overhear, she would certainly catch flak for it from her brothers and even her mother. The teasing had stopped and she didn't intend to revive it.

"Oh no," said Hermione, breaking into Ginny's thoughts, "I'm all out!"

Ginny blinked, and then quickly duplicated her own set of snowballs for her. "Here. Sorry, I spaced off."

"Thanks. Hey . . ." Hermione frowned and nodded up into the sky.

Ginny looked up and narrowed her eyes. The Weasley men and Harry had either taken a time out for a huddle, or else they were plotting something. She smirked at the white patches on the black and scarlet cloaks. Ron was especially clobbered. He was also at the center of the huddle that included both teams.

"Unless I'm mistaken, we're about to be bombarded," said Ginny, leaning conspiratorially toward Hermione. "I've got an idea . . ."

"I love conjuring spells," Fred beamed as Ron passed around the Dungbombs. "Most excellent. I've got something to add to this lot . . ."

Harry smirked as he accepted the bag of smelly tricks from Bill and loaded his pockets. It felt like playing dirty, him being so unblemished compared to the snow-damaged Weasley players, but he wasn't about to toss away camaraderie.

"Brilliant!" George whispered as Fred conjured what appeared to be water balloons filled with pudding. "I didn't know you'd brought these."

"I didn't," Fred grinned wickedly. "They're Ginny's present from me."

"She'll slaughter you," Charlie warned. "She hates it when we take her stuff."

Fred shrugged. "Maybe."

"Three words," said Ron. "Bat Bogey Hex."

Fred paled, but then gave his head a toss. "I can take it."

"What's in these?" Harry asked. He held one balloonish object aloft. They felt rubbery, but he had a distinct feeling they would easily explode against sudden contact. And he doubted the twins would settle for pudding.

Fred's eyes widened in astonishment. "Harry, Harry! Surely you heard about what we did to Malfoy Manor—"

"Really Rank Rain?"

"Yes, but this is more like Malicious Mud," said George. "They were in development after Move Out, Malfoys! Day. The Aurors wanted first dibs, so they didn't get out on the market until this year."

Harry just shook his head. Move Out, Malfoys! Day wasn't a particular favorite in his mind. It had been a major victory for the Order, but he had been trapped in an underground hovel, incensed that he couldn't get to Ginny, and Draco Malfoy had apparently rescued her instead to satisfy a grudge against his father.

"Why don't we aim mostly for Hermione?" said Ron. "She's been really getting me with the snowballs. And she's not very good with the Bat Bogey."

"But she could turn your insides out," argued George.

"So could Ginny, just without magic," said Charlie.

"Oh, hell, let's just clobber them both and be done with it!" Fred said, rolling his eyes. "Okay, on the count of three. One . . . two . . . thr—"

Harry lurched forward on his broom, nearly knocking Fred off his as something hard, cold, and wet slammed into the back of his head. Another exploded against the side of his face. He'd have lost his glasses if not for a simple charm already placed to keep them on and intact.

"NOW!" Ron roared. The other players had blocked the snowballs from him. With a war cry, he dropped below their straggling huddle. Bill whooped and dived after him, already launching a Malicious Mud Mallet. Harry wiped the snow out of his eyes in time to be hit by a snowball in the chest and see Bill swerve and roll to avoid the onslaught. He quickly aimed his Firebolt up and to the right. The stream of snowballs fell below him.

"Aaah!" Ron cried, nearly falling off his broomstick. Charlie swooped past him, seemingly impervious to the snow attack as he launched three Dungbombs at Ginny, who swore violently and dove away.

Harry loaded two Dungbombs into his right hand, gripped his broom, and charged at a nearly vertical angle.

"You—" Ron shouted at the girls, but then he fell off his broom.

"Ha ha!" Hermione shrieked, sounding very un-Hermione-like as Ron landed face first in a snowdrift. She shrieked when George fired several Mallets at her. "Ginny!"

"I—am—busy!"

Ginny was standing again, her wand high as she sent no less than ten head-sized snowballs at Fred. He dropped into a Sloth Grip Roll, and Harry only had a split second to realize he was in the line of fire before he was careening blindly off course, gripping his broomstick for dear life.

"Oh, bloody—" Ginny suddenly screamed and Fred let out a manic shout of victory.

Harry sensed he was dangerously close to the ground. His face burned. With a desperate heave, he wrenched his entire body in what he hoped was up. Gravity suddenly pulled as he shot, thankfully, toward the sky. He slowed and shook his thumping head, feeling very dizzy. When he felt steady, he wiped the snow from his face and looked down to see a purple light explode from Ginny's wand to stop Fred, George, and Charlie in their tracks.

"_You flaming imbeciles!"_ she shouted, face red, arms gesticulating wildly. _"You bottom-dwelling wankers!"_

"And you were the one chiding Hermione this morning?" Bill called, as high in the sky as Harry but on the other end of the paddock.

"Don't make me hex you too!" Ginny called threateningly, turning her wand tip at him.

Bill chuckled.

Harry flew slightly lower, squinting. Ginny appeared to be covered in a steaming greenish brown substance.

"We'll call truce if you let us down," George bargained from where he was frozen in midair.

"No, I don't think so," Ginny smiled serenely, arching an eyebrow. Then she turned her wand on herself and muttered a spell. The muddy blotches remained. "Oh, you bloody tossers! _Evanseco!_" Nothing happened. Instead of insulting her brothers some more, she merely turned her steely glare on them.

Harry glanced toward Hermione and Ron. She appeared to be scolding him as she checked him for injuries. Ron was grinning stupidly at her.

"Fine," Fred sighed. "Let us go and we'll get it off you."

Ginny shook her head, hands on her hips. "I'm not stupid, Fred. You must promise that if I lift the curse, you'll lift mine immediately without any other charm, hex, or trick, and march straight up to the house—that goes for George and Charlie as well."

"And if we don't?"

A catlike grin curved up her cheeks. "Oh, you just try it and see."

"Okay, okay, we promise," Fred said hurriedly. "Right?" he added, trying to turn to include George and Charlie.

"Yep."

"No problem, little sister."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "_Finite Incantatem."_

Fred, George, and Charlie plummeted ten feet to a heap on the ground. Ginny kept her wand poised warningly on them. When George obediently lifted the curse, she still kept her guard. She didn't lower her wand until they were inside the house.

"Ron! _No!_"

Harry swiveled in the air to see Hermione flailing her arms and trying to dash away from Ron. He caught hold of her ankle and she crashed into the snow with a muffled shriek. Ron laughed and crouched over her, but she smashed snow into his face and rolled away, quickly up and running awkwardly towards The Burrow.

Harry shook his head at their antics and landed a few feet from Ginny. She was watching their squabble, arms limp at her sides.

"Gotcha!" Ron cried, grabbing Hermione around the waist. They tumbled on the hill and collapsed into a heap of giggles.

Harry came beside Ginny, glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes. She looked lost, happy, and sad. And envious. He wondered if she even noticed he was there. Not to become entranced by her flushed cheeks and slightly parted lips, he looked ahead at Ron and Hermione, who were trying to shove snow down each other's jumper fronts.

"I want what they have."

Harry startled at the sigh and stared at Ginny, but she still hadn't twitched.

"They're so lucky," she continued. "Nothing's keeping them from each other."

Harry swallowed but kept very still. He wasn't sure if she was speaking to him or not. And if she was, what was she saying exactly? Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and opted to remain silent.

Then Ginny shivered and turned to him, her mouth set determinedly. "So. Harry." She paused and licked her lips, glancing back down at the ground before meeting his eye. "I suppose we have to discuss a couple of things. Australia."

"Yeah . . ." Harry glanced down toward The Burrow and rubbed the back of his neck. It ached from the impact of the snowball. She wanted to talk about Australia _here_?

"Of course, if you don't want me to come, that's fine, I understand," Ginny said quickly, misinterpreting his delay. "I was a bit intrusive for asking."

"No, no, it's not that!" Harry looked at her dumbly. What was he supposed to say? What were they discussing exactly? He hadn't been prepared for any of these conversations when he'd returned to The Burrow. In fact, he hadn't been prepared for anything except the strain.

"Okay." Ginny was giving him an odd look, but then she glanced upward and grimaced. Over her shoulder, Harry could see Bill heading back to the Burrow, tossing them a questioning glance over his shoulder. "Look," she said, "I just need to know when you're leaving, what I need to bring, that sort of thing."

"After New Year's . . . and I don't know, bring whatever you need to bring," Harry shrugged. How was he supposed to know what women traveled with? "I'll owl you if I think of anything else."

Ginny nodded but said nothing, her eyes roaming the quiet, white scenery, again looking lost. After a minute, she gave an almost inaudible sigh and turned toward the Burrow, retracing the path they'd all made earlier. Harry watched her for a moment, then shouldered his broom and followed, wishing that life were clear and simple.


	9. Point of No Return

Chapter Nine

"_Point of No Return"_

Steam rose from the aluminum cylinder as Ginny expertly tilted the metal 'wand' to turn the milk into foam. A whistling hiss pierced her ears as the needle on the thermometer neared its mark. For a brief minute, her world was nothing but milk, steam, and whistling.

Then the needle hit the tiny red bar, and she promptly pushed the tiny black square on the espresso machine. What steam her skin did not absorb misted and disappeared around her. Instinctively, she pushed the two shot button, all the while wiping down the wand and grabbing a long-handled spoon, cardboard cup holder, and a plastic lid. The moment the two shots were done pouring, Ginny filled the cup with foamy milk. Her timing, brought on by repetition and meticulous attention to detail, meant she did not need the spoon to control the density of the foam, but she liked to have it just in case.

Leaving just half an inch between the foamy liquid and the lip of the cup, Ginny then neatly swirled whip cream on top, and then popped the lid on.

"Grande latte!" she called, placing the hot cup of caffeine and calorie in the cardboard holder and setting it dead center on the pick-up counter.

A slight woman in a business suit hurried up carrying a briefcase. "Is it skim?" she said stiffly.

"Yes, ma'am."

"With whip cream?"

Ginny, well-practiced at keeping a straight face, said just as politely, "Yes, ma'am."

The woman gave a slight nod and took off with her drink. Ginny didn't bother to watch her go; she had another order, and anyway, women ordering skim lattes with whip cream had ceased to fascinate her.

As Ginny prepared her next order (two viente mochas, one hazelnut steamer, and one caramel machiatto), she couldn't help but glance apprehensively at Maggie, who was busy with extricating two slices of cheesecake from the bakery window. For two days now she'd been agonizing over her impulsive decision at The Burrow, but it had not occurred to her until she'd returned to the apartment and received a call from Maggie begging her to come in today, the twenty-seventh, because Dan was sick, that she would have to quit at The Sipper.

This meant she would be quitting her second job in two months.

Her stomach tightened unpleasantly as she thought about Flourish and Blotts. Quitting the bookstore and leaving Mr. Whitworth's tutelage had been a way to escape the pressing suffocation she'd felt in the wizarding world these past months. After breaking her friendship with Dean (he'd obeyed her order not to talk to her all too well), she'd become almost paranoid amongst the magical world.

At Flourish and Blotts she was surrounded by ridiculous, unauthorized publications about Harry, the constant luncheon invitations from Fred and George (and sometimes Ron), patrons recognizing her from school or a war article, and Mr. Whitworth's keen mind. The pressure only seemed to worsen during that first week in November, when she felt the coldest and her nightmares were too vivid. Dealing with Mr. Whitworth's inquiries about writing and how her life was 'carrying on' had become far too difficult, especially when she imagined every ring of the door chimes to be Dean Thomas, her brothers, or her mother.

And, so, Ginny quit.

Maggie had been overjoyed to have her on full-time. One of her full-timers had quit for family reasons. During that terrible first week in November, Ginny had agonized over what she'd done to Dean, and had been certain her friendly, working relationship with Maggie would be ruined . . . but she had been wrong.

Maggie had noticed Dean's lack of visits whenever Ginny was working, and once she'd inquired casually, but even then, Ginny had been surprised by the woman's friendly concern. She answered as honestly and vaguely as she could. "I have a few things I need to work out and I asked Dean to give me some space. He's been very good about it." As an after thought, she added, "Could you tell him thank you for me?"

She had worried it'd come across catty, but Maggie did not seem upset. Only every now and then, from the corner of her eye, did Ginny catch the woman raising her eyebrows questioningly.

So when she started to buckle under the pressure of the wizarding world, The Sipper seemed like a perfect place to immerse herself in. The repetition of making coffee drinks, cleaning, and looking after the café's eclectic clientele became a source of comfort and certainty for Ginny.

Even though she'd known she would grow weary of working here, she had not anticipated leaving so soon.

Or like this.

"Woo!" Maggie exclaimed, startling Ginny out of her thoughts. "I do believe that was our rush." She wiped an arm across her sweaty forehead and smiled cheerily at Ginny. "How was Christmas at your mother's?"

"Oh, fine," said Ginny. She took the counter rag and quickly wiped up the rings caused by the pitchers and cups, placed the cold ingredients back in the fridge underneath the counter, and then rinsed out the shot glasses. "Just the usual stuff, you know," she added, as Maggie seemed to be waiting for more explanation. "Lots of food and family."

"I'm sorry about calling you in on your day off," said Maggie. She took out some chapstick and smeared it on her chapped lips, and then tucked some sweaty, graying curls back into her hairnet. "I know you probably wanted more time with your family."

"Oh no! I'm happy to work for you!"

"Are you sure?" Maggie peered closely at her with what Ginny knew to be the "Mother Look." "You just seem awfully tired lately."

"I'm fine. Honestly." She didn't bother to force a smile; Maggie could spot a lie faster than Mad Eye Moody.

"Uh-huh."

Ginny looked down at the rag still in her hand. Now was her moment to tell Maggie she had to quit. She bit her lip, feeling guilty and pathetic. How could she say that she had spontaneously decided to embark on a journey to her inevitable doom with someone she'd betrayed two years ago?

"Spit it out, girl," said Maggie firmly, snapping her fingers.

Feeling only two inches tall, Ginny forced herself to look at her boss. "I have to quit," she said quietly. She took a deep breath, and then it all came out in a rush. "I'm really sorry, Maggie! I had no idea until I went home, and then it just sort of, well, I have to. I'm going to Australia by the end of the week. I'm really sorry, I hate to leave you like this, you're absolutely wonderful, but—"

Bells chimed and Ginny stopped abruptly, her eyes flitting toward the door. Her stomach disappeared, rudely taking her lungs with it.

Dean hesitated between the door and the counter, looking rather surprised and uncertain. Ginny quickly looked down, not wanting to meet his eye and see whether or not he hated her.

"Dean," said Maggie in her usual boisterous voice, "come give your auntie a kiss."

"Hello, Aunt Maggie."

Ginny kept her eyes riveted on the espresso machine.

"Hello, Ginny."

Damn. It.

Clenching the rag tightly in her fist, Ginny forced herself to turn to Dean and nod amicably. "Dean." Feeling that this was really rude, she added rather tightly, "Good Christmas?"

"Yes." Dean wasn't smiling, but he didn't look angry either. He seemed to be trying to meet her eye, but she didn't let him and looked down again. "How was yours? I stopped in at your brothers' store, and Fred said Harry's back for a bit."

Ginny shrugged and neatly folded the rag, still refusing to look up at him. "He leaves after the New Year."

"Ah. Doesn't want _The Daily Prophet_ to catch wind, I s'pose."

"No."

A heavy silence settled between them. Only Sophia coming in at that moment for her shift broke it.

"Happy Christmas, everyone!" she called cheerily. "Hi, Dean! Hi, Ginny!"

"Finally, someone in a good mood," Maggie muttered.

Ginny looked at her sharply, then down at her shoes, her cheeks burning.

"Well, I suppose I better get your pay while it's not busy," Maggie went on. She went into the backroom where Sophia had just disappeared to clock in and store her coat, leaving Ginny alone to deal with Dean.

"What's she talking about? It's not payday," said Dean.

Sucking in a deep breath, Ginny wondered if the day could get any worse. Still not looking at Dean, she mumbled, "Today's my last day."

"You're quitting? _Why_?" Dean exclaimed in dismay.

"Because I can't very well work here from Australia, can I?" she snapped. _I just want to get out of here! _

"Australia?" Dean looked perplexed. "What're you going to Australia for?"

_I wish I knew_. "I need a holiday."

"When are you leaving?"

"After the New Year."

Something seemed to connect, because Dean's furrowed brow cleared and he shot her a narrowed look. "You said Harry was leaving after the New Year. Is he also going to Australia?"

Too tired to lie, Ginny just stared at the counter top and nodded weakly. She knew where this was going, but what could she do to stop it?

"So," said Dean. "You're going to Australia. With Harry." He paused and Ginny winced at his words. "That explains quite a bit."

Ginny looked up. "It doesn't explain anything," she said shortly. The corners of her eyes burned and her voice trembled. "I wish it _did_, but it doesn't, okay? There's nothing between Harry and me."

The truth of it hurt.

"Sure, whatever." Dean clearly didn't believe her. He couldn't say so, however, because Maggie and Sophia reappeared, the older woman carrying an envelope with Ginny's pay. She gave no sign that she noticed the tension between her nephew and former employee, but Sophia's eyes widened a little.

"Well, here you go then, Ginny," Maggie said, handing over the envelope. She smiled, but Ginny thought it didn't quite reach the woman's dark eyes. "You were a good worker. Good luck."

Feeling even worse than she had just a moment ago, Ginny thanked Maggie, said her goodbye to a confused and saddened Sophia, and then left her apron in the backroom. When she reappeared, Dean had gone, and a small line had formed so that Maggie and Sophia were distracted.

Just like the criminal she felt, Ginny slipped out of The Sipper.

"I think I have a penchant for stupidity," Ginny groaned, flopping down on Joe's couch with a flourish.

"I can't comment unless you're more specific," said Joe dryly. He shut the door and came over to the couch, his hands in his pockets as he gazed down at her sprawled form.

Ginny closed her eyes and shuddered. She understood perfectly why people hated the holiday season. "I've just done a lot of stupid things in my life," she mumbled, not wanting to open her eyes and see Joe's inquiring face. But she needed a release, someone to tell her for certain whether or not she was making a terrible mistake. She had to tell Alyson today or completely scratch everything; it wouldn't be fair to leave her friend hanging, but then everything would be final.

"Budge up," Joe said, patting her booted calves.

Ginny opened her eyes and curled her legs up obediently, then pushed herself up into a sitting position. Joe was watching her with his quiet, imploring eyes, one arm stretched over the couch back.

"I quit my job today," she said, staring down at her nibbled nails.

"Why? Do you have another?"

"No."

"So . . ."

Ginny moaned and covered her face. "I'm really messed up, Joe."

Joe reached out and pulled her hands away from her face. "A little depressed maybe, but you're not mental." He grinned crookedly and added, "Much." Then he frowned seriously. "I've always wondered why."

She shook her head. "It'd take too much to explain it all."

"Okay." He paused, then said, "So why did you quit The Sipper?"

"Because I'm leaving after the New Year." Ginny bit her lip, thinking back to the horrible scene just two hours ago. Why did Dean have to walk through the door at that moment? She wouldn't have felt so terrible or guilty.

"You're leaving?"

"Yes," Ginny said, trying hard to sound calm about it. "I'm going to Australia."

Joe had been leaning close, but suddenly sat up straight. "Australia? That's the other side of the world!"

"I know." Ginny massaged her temples, her gut twisting at his observation. So wonderfully far away, yet so painfully close to Harry . . .

"Well, I've never been there myself, but it sounds like an adventure," he said, nudging her arm. "When did you decide this? Alyson hasn't said anything. Are you going together or alone?"

"No, she's not coming. I—" Ginny looked guiltily into her lap. "I haven't exactly told her yet. But I will! Today."

She peeked at Joe from under her lashes, wondering if he would be angry with her for not telling his cousin. He frowned his tilted little frown, studying her thoughtfully. How could she tell him she'd only thought this up Christmas Eve from under that damn mistletoe? The past two days she had been scurrying through her assets and arguing with her sudden irrationality. It was the 27th of December, the first day back from the Christmas holiday, and she was ragged.

"Please say something," she whispered, not trusting his silence, even if he didn't look angry.

"Sorry." He flashed an encouraging smile and then opened his arms. "Come here, you look ready to fall apart."

Ginny readily accepted her friend's offer, surprised to find herself shaking. Gratefully, she rested her head against his shoulder, feeling temporarily stable in his comforting squeeze before he relaxed. For a moment she pondered how wonderful it was to have a male Muggle friend; Joe didn't know her as everyone else did, and as much as she hated to admit it, she craved a man's touch, even if it was only in friendship.

"I _am_ falling apart," she confessed. Harry and Dean could testify to that. "That's why I'm going to Australia."

"To get away? Do a little soul-searching?"

Ginny frowned. "I guess you could call it that. But that's not quite it." She knew exactly where her soul had gone, that was the whole problem.

"Then what is it? Why are you traipsing off to Australia, halfway around the world, all on your own?"

"I won't be alone." She winced. Harry would be there. It left her cold to think about it. But wasn't she always cold?

"Oh? Who are you going with? Make up with that Dean fellow, did you?"

"Funny you should mention him," she muttered. "No, I'm not going with him. He probably hates me for sure now. He witnessed my resignation today."

"Ouch." Joe poked her in the rib, frowning when she didn't even twitch. "You didn't tell me why you're going."

Ginny inhaled deeply, wishing not for the first time that her life was very different. "I don't even know for sure why. I just have to get away." She stared unseeingly at an opened CD case, lulled by the soft melody of a song she had played in the flat. "I'm not getting away from it, I know that. I'm diving into it. Maybe . . . I don't know, maybe I hope he'll have the answer or I'll find it if I'm with him?"

She hadn't known she'd spoken until Joe whispered, "Who? The answer to what?"

But Ginny shook her head and closed her eyes. She was drowning. Her throat was closing and her eyes were filling. After all of this time, all of her hardening, did she still hope to be with Harry, to be purified or redeemed?

Or, Ginny thought as she gulped for control, maybe she wanted Harry Potter to finish what Tom Riddle had begun.

_Break me, shatter me into tiny little insignificant pieces that can never be found or whole again._

"Sorry for freaking out on you," Ginny mumbled as she searched her satchel for her keys and wand. Absently, she rubbed under her left eye, not convinced all her mascara had been wiped away.

"Again—don't worry about it," said Joe, leaning against the corridor wall and peering up the stairwell to the next floor.

Ginny let out an inaudible sigh as she watched Joe from the corner of her eye. She'd invited him over to dinner so she wouldn't be alone in breaking the news to Alyson. Perhaps her New Year's resolution should be not to burst into hysterics in front of men. Dean, Harry, and now Joe. He seemed to take it better than the other two, and Ginny wondered if Muggle men were used to women losing their heads. At any rate, he had handled everything admirably, and for just a brief moment while drying her tears, she'd wondered . . .

"What?" Joe was looking at her in amusement, eyebrows raised, his mouth crooked.

"Oh, nothing," she said quickly, hoping she wouldn't blush.

"You were staring," he accused.

"I was thinking."

"About what?"

Ginny flicked her wand at the door, poised her key over the hole but then turned back to him. She tilted her head thoughtfully, hoping to hide the slight embarrassment that had clung to her since she'd lost control. Again.

"Well, back at the apartment, I just thought . . ." she paused, wondering if he would get the wrong idea. She shook her head. "No, nevermind."

"Come on, tell me. You ruined my favorite jumper, fair is fair."

Ginny cringed. "Sorry. I really didn't mean to lose it—"

Joe stepped forward and cupped his hands around her face. "Stop that. Now!" he ordered in his sternest voice.

"Yessir," she tried to say, but her cheeks were squishing her lips together.

"Good girl." He dropped a peck on her forehead before releasing her. Then he grinned goofily and patted his pockets. "I'm out of biscuits."

"Ow, you prat," Ginny scowled, rubbing her cheeks and giving him a dirty look. "Just for that I _won't_ turn you into a newt."

Giggling at Joe's puppy dog eyes begging for magic, she turned the key and opened the door. Just within the threshold, she halted and gasped at what she saw.

"Harry!"

The clock on the wall had been edging steadily toward six in time with Alyson's assurances Ginny would be home "anytime now, I swear!" She'd said the same at five, when Harry had returned from his earlier visit. The younger Gryffindor had suggested at two he just go to The Sipper, but Harry had a distinct feeling Ginny wouldn't have appreciated it.

But as the minute hand neared the twelve on the kitchen clock and Alyson's assurances became half-hearted, Harry wished he'd taken her advice. An hour with the girl was a bit awkward, even if she was friendly enough. He'd simply never gotten to know many of Ginny's friends, despite the fact Alyson had been a Chaser, and the fact that he was here on secretive business didn't help.

"She must be staying late or at the park or something," Alyson said lamely, flicking her wand at the pasta boiling on the stove. "She likes to take walks and stuff. Good for deep contemplation, you know."

"Hmm." Harry suppressed the urge to drum his fingers on the table. Quidditch had been chewed over. He didn't much want to talk about the war, nor did Alyson seem to want to be the first to mention it. After all, The Boy Who Hides From _The Daily Prophet_ was prone to odd mood swings and radical displays of behavior, or so rumor claimed.

"What sort of sauce do you want, Harry?" Alyson asked suddenly. She jumped up and hurried to the stove, her long, shiny dark hair swinging like a cloak behind her. He remembered how tightly braided and wrapped her hair had been for Quidditch matches. However gorgeous and girly Alyson Baker had seemed in the corridors, she had been a very practical athlete.

"I don't think I'll be staying," Harry sighed.

He moved to stand, but at that moment he heard the click of a key turning, and the door opened to reveal Ginny entering, followed quickly by a brown-haired young man.

"Harry!" she gasped, her eyes widening. A second passed where she closed her eyes and then opened them, as if to collect herself. "What are you doing here?"

Harry felt a pang of hurt and confusion at her accusatory, strained voice. She stood stiffly just inside the threshold, looking pinched. "I—" He glanced at Alyson, wondering how much he could say in front of her without giving Ginny's secret away, and then locked eyes with Ginny again.

Ginny pressed her lips together and slumped her shoulders, stepping further into the room. "Well, I was going to say it tonight, anyway."

As she stepped into the brighter light of the kitchen, Harry realized that her eyes were pink and puffy, as if she'd lost sleep or recently cried. She didn't give him a second look as she leaned over the pasta before opening a cupboard and taking down four plates.

"I smell a secret," Alyson said lightly as she poured Alfredo sauce onto the pasta. "And you say you were bringing my cousin here to pester me. Do you really have to rub in our relation like that? You know I can't stand boring, computer-nerd Muggles."

"I'm your favorite cousin and you know it," the Muggle teased, leaning against the counter.

Alyson pointed her wand warningly, but her grin was wide. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair, wishing he could get this over and done with. Knowing that this guy was Alyson's cousin made him feel slightly better, but he felt distinctly unwanted. Ginny wasn't looking at him, Alyson's eyes were bouncing all over the place, and her cousin was eyeing him curiously.

"So, are you in the same sort of, er, group as Alyson and Ginny?" he asked.

"Sorry?"

"He's asking if you're a wizard, Harry," Alyson clarified with a grin.

"Oh," said Harry. "Yeah. I am."

"Harry, this is Joe Parson, my cousin. Joe, this is Harry Potter—the best spanking wizard this side of the pond."

Harry felt his face heat and heard Ginny make a muffled sound as she set potholders at the center of the table for the pot of pasta. He glanced at her, but her eyes darted away before he could read them.

"Why don't we all eat, then?" Ginny said a little too brightly.

The table was small and wobbly with only enough room for a person on each side. Ginny reminded him distinctly of Mrs. Weasley as she dished the pasta onto every plate, ever the gracious host. Sitting so close to Ginny, Harry could see the telltale shadow of wiped away tears, and he was shocked by how drawn and pale she looked. How could she look even sadder and sicker than on Christmas, a mere two days ago?

He tried very hard not to stare and to instead concentrate on his food. He deliberated over what to do. Obviously she wasn't going to start the conversation. Should he wait until after supper and talk privately? Why wouldn't she look at him?

A sigh escaped him, causing everyone to look up.

"Sorry," he said quickly.

"I guess I might as well get this over with," Ginny said abruptly. She let her fork drop, put her head in her hands for a moment, and then looked up. Red finger marks crossed her pale face. Briefly she cast Harry a look, but then she was addressing the pot in the center of the table.

"Allie," she said, her voice tight, "I quit The Sipper today because I'm going off to Australia after the New Year."

Alyson's mouth dropped open, but she didn't look affronted. "What? How's that? I want to go!"

Ginny bit her lip and shook her head. "I'm sorry. I'm fairly sure you can't go with me." She paused and tucked some coppery hair behind her ear. Her cheeks were flushing. "I'm going with . . . with Harry."

Two pairs of eyes flew to him, and Harry wished he could disappear. Alyson's held joyful suspicion, but Joe was frowning thoughtfully. Harry couldn't think of anything to say, so he shrugged his shoulders.

"When did this happen?" Alyson demanded, still grinning.

"Christmas Eve," Ginny mumbled, pushing pasta around with her fork. "I would have told you sooner, Allie, I was just . . ." She trailed off and shrugged helplessly.

"So that's why you're here, eh?" said Alyson, addressing Harry. "Whisking my best friend off to the Land of Oz. Are you eloping?"

"_Alyson!"_ Ginny gasped, pure white. "Don't be stupid," she hissed.

"I was only asking." Alyson's hands were up in the air, but there was nothing innocent about her smirk.

Harry really wished he could disappear. Coming had been a bad idea, but he had to talk to Ginny so she could leave the country. Maybe after this she'd decide to go alone . . .

"_Anyway_," Ginny said, clearing her throat meaningfully. "What are you doing here, Harry?"

Harry nearly let out his breath in relief. Finally. She was speaking to him and he could get to the point and escape Alyson and Joe's inquiring looks.

"You're supposed to re-sign for your passport," he said, digging into his cloak for the form.

"But I've already gone to Egypt."

"That was before the war. The Ministry's making everyone fill out forms for re-licensing. Your dad was able to get a hold of yours—"

"You didn't tell him, did you?" she squeaked, her eyes suddenly lighting up in anger.

"No," Harry said quickly. "He was actually trying to get a hold of everyone to sign, since you, Ron, and Hermione haven't traveled anywhere outside of Britain after the war. I just told him I'd get it to you." Ginny was still frowning at him, but she took the forms nonetheless. "I can take them back tomorrow, if you like. That way you can get your new one owled back by the twenty-ninth."

She nodded. "Was that all?"

Harry sat up a little straighter and ran a hand through his hair nervously. Would she be offended for him asking in front of her friend and . . . whatever Joe was?

"Well, I just needed to go over some stuff on traveling. Like Apparition and Portkey and such."

Ginny put the forms down, her brow creased. "Oh. Right." She frowned. "I've never done a long-distance Apparition except for during the test. That was nearly a year ago."

Harry quickly explained the travel options, slightly annoyed by Joe's rapt attention. Perhaps it was natural for a Muggle to be so intrigued, but Harry was too wary of Joe's part in Ginny's life. And why had Ginny been crying before she came home with this man?

"Well," Ginny said when he finished, "thanks for stopping by and everything." She picked at her plate. "How long have you been waiting?"

"Not long," Harry lied, shooting a look at Alyson to keep her quiet.

"Hmm."

"I should probably be going," he said. He knew his presence was as uncomfortable for them as it was for him. Ginny would barely look at him. "Thanks for supper, Alyson."

"No problem. You should come by more often. All Gryffindors are welcome."

"Right." Harry wondered how many Gryffindors _did_ stop by. Hoping he didn't look like he was scampering away, he stood up from the table. To his surprise, Ginny did as well.

"Better see you to the door," she explained, not quite meeting his eyes. "Mum would have my head for lack of etiquette."

"I can see myself—" he protested, but Ginny simply shook her head and started off across the flat. Perhaps she wanted to say something to him in private? Harry followed, his unfed stomach tightening.

At the door, she said nothing, but merely opened it, waiting for him to go. Feeling stupid waiting for something that wasn't going to happen, Harry started to go through, but paused in the threshold as something occurred to him.

"Ginny," he said quietly, drawing her eyes up. "You don't have to come. I mean, if you changed your mind . . ."

Uncertainty marred her pale, freckled face. Harry held his breath as she looked down at the carpet, long, coppery locks falling in front of her face. She was going to say no and close the door on him . . . he'd lose his chance to make amends for whatever had gone wrong between them or find out why she'd changed . . .

"No," she said, lifting her face. Her expression was unreadable. "I'm going."

Again, he tried to control his exhale. "Okay."

"Goodnight, Harry." She was closing the door, again not quite looking at him.

"'Night," he said, and then the door shut.

Ginny leaned against the door as it clicked shut. She was _not_ going to start shaking again. Absolutely, positively not. Joe would be on her in a second, and she couldn't count on Alyson playing ignorant, judging by her meaningful looks at the table. Simply too much emotion was packed into this one day, and all she wanted to do was go to bed and end it.

"Should've had him stay for dessert," Alyson called.

Ginny cringed. She needed to cringe for a lot of things. Quitting The Sipper, seeing Dean's suspicious look, freaking out on Joe, and Harry's unannounced visit. Most of all she cringed for her inability to act normally around him. _I'll have that figured out by the time we're in Australia_, she reasoned bleakly. If not, then adios, and she'd figure something else out. But if she failed at this, what could she do?

"Hey."

Ginny winced at Joe's voice behind her. She hadn't heard him come up, or the preceding "I'll check up on psycho-girl over there." (Which Joe probably hadn't said at all, but she could well imagine.)

"Are you all right?"

"I'd think you'd figured that out by now," Ginny muttered, turning slowly around to address her friend.

Joe didn't laugh. He frowned and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Can I talk to you in private?"

It was her turn to frown. "I guess . . ." Joe seemed to like the serious talks today.

Instead of heading for her bedroom, which he'd never been in, Joe moved around her to open the door. _He really does mean private_, Ginny worried, reluctantly following him into the corridor of apartment doors. She hoped everyone had thick walls.

Joe was looking down the hall. She couldn't imagine what he had to say or why he was acting so very un-Joe-like. Flattening her back to the slightly grungy wall, she waited and tried not to chew on her bottom lip or crack her knuckles.

"Can I ask you something?" Joe finally said, turning to her.

"Depends on the question." Was he going to ask about Harry?

"Do you know what you're doing?"

Ginny frowned. "What do you mean?"

Joe paused and took a noticeable huff of air. "Sorry, I don't mean to sound rude or accusatory, but I can't help but . . ." He trailed off and shook his head. Then he seemed to change his mind and took a step closer, his face completely serious. "Ginny, I haven't known you very long, I know, so I probably don't have a right to say anything, but I have to because I think you're just setting yourself up for more hurt."

"I know that—"

"So why, then?" he demanded, his voice rising slightly. "Why are you pushing everyone away? You had a good thing going here, Ginny. You had a job at that bookstore; you seemed to like it when you did speak of it. You're living with Alyson who is a good friend—I should know—and then you had friends, a boyfriend, that broomstick team, your family, and another job at The Sipper. Why are you breaking off from all of it?"

"I told you I'm messed up!" Why couldn't he just leave it at that? Why were both he and Alyson suddenly gaining up on her like she was a stupid child that needed tutoring?

"I think that's just an excuse," Joe said quietly, crossing his arms over his chest. "And I also think you don't _want_ to go with off with this Harry Potter bloke."

Ginny squeezed her hands into fists. She wanted to scream. Why couldn't he just leave her alone? Where was unassuming, easy-going Joe? Why was he questioning her after she'd flipped out on his couch?

"Ginny." He sounded apologetic, gentle. She felt her urge to scream weaken, but it still tickled her throat, ready if she needed it. "Look, I don't want to upset you—"

She snorted derisively. "Good job on that."

Joe cracked a sheepish smile before looking stern and concerned again. "I'm serious, Gin. You're pushing people away, and you really shouldn't. You don't have to go off to Australia to be happy."

"It's not Australia," Ginny sighed, staring off toward the stairwell.

"Then this . . . Harry Potter?"

_If only_, she thought, closing her eyes. In the momentary darkness, she saw Harry's body suspended beside a bubbling cauldron, blood flowing down his arm into the unearthly potion as Voldemort cackled triumphantly, a dagger in his hand. She opened her eyes and blinked.

"No, I doubt I could be happy with Harry," she said sadly. _I doubt he could be happy with me._

"So why?"

"Why am I like this? Why am I leaving everything and everyone? Why I can't be happy with Harry?" Ginny could feel her body starting to tremble, her heart starting to race. How could she tell Joe, a Muggle, someone totally unaware of the horrors they had all faced, about Voldemort, Harry, and the war? About Macnair falling to the floor after she'd commanded a snake to kill him? That she'd surrendered to evil?

"I couldn't possibly begin to tell you," she said, shaking her head. "You wouldn't want to know. You'd despise me."

"What? You killed someone?"

"That's not funny."

The joke died on Joe's face and his eyes widened. In her mind, she heard her own hysterical screams as Nagini recoiled and the other Death Eaters found their bulky executioner dead on the floor. The scream that was tickling her throat rose, but she swallowed it down and pushed off from the wall.

"I'm tired. You better go home," she said quietly.

Joe nodded slowly, his eyes still calculating and never leaving her. "I suppose so," he said just as quietly. "But, Ginny? Please think about what I said. Your friends are here, we'll help you if you need it."

"I know."

She didn't meet his eye. He embraced her, but she couldn't quite lift her arms to return it. Frowning, he kissed her forehead, and then said, "Tell my cousin bye for me. Stop by before you leave, okay?" And then Ginny was back in the apartment and locking her bedroom door to Alyson's inquiries.


	10. The Beginning of the Journey

**Chapter Ten**

"_The Beginning of the Journey"_

"You would think they knew how to take care of things like this! Honestly! Why would something in Asia affect what's going on in Europe?"

From underneath the small brim of her cap, Ginny cast the whiny, irate witch in the peacock coat a scowl.

"And I'm just trying to get to Paris! Don't even have to go to Asia!" The middle-aged woman's complaint was shrill, causing her equally ridiculously dressed companion to wince before nodding in agreement. Each witch had obviously dyed hair, the first with orange hair that would even offend a Weasley. Their make-up was similarly fake and apparent, but the second began applying pink lipstick as the first clutched her handbag and continued to screech.

"You think I'll get into trouble for casting _Silencio_?" Ginny muttered to Harry, who was reading _The Daily Prophet_ and shifting uncomfortably in his hardback chair.

"If you do, I can mediate matters with the I'm-The-Boy-Who-Lived routine."

"And be mobbed by your admiring public?"

"Ah—no." Harry visibly winced. His eyes darted around nervously, and he pulled his cap further down over his forehead and slouched a bit more in the chair. Not that anyone would actually see the scar if he hadn't—he'd cast a charm to disguise the unmistakable celebrity trademark. Nor had any wizarding publication ever taken a photo of Harry Potter in a light, trimmed goatee.

Ginny did her best not to smirk at Harry's disguise. Anyone who looked close enough at him would easily know he was Harry Potter, but he'd also expertly cast a Distraction Charm to keep any lookers from lingering long enough to recognize him.

"Attention, please," an amplified voice floated above their heads. "Would waiting parties twenty-seven through thirty-two please come to the Rerouting Desk at this time?"

"Well, it's about time!" the peacock witch huffed.

"Good riddance," Ginny said under her breath. She shifted in her chair and pulled her feet in just in time to prevent a toddler from tripping over her boots.

"William! Darling, please be still for Mummy!" A harried young mother came tearing around the corner, her cheeks flushed and hair falling out of her ponytail.

Ginny watched the mother snatch her giggling boy up before looking around at the crowded seating area. She'd been up since five that morning, packing last minute things before Harry arrived at six so they could Apparate to Southampton's International Portkey Center. They had been scheduled to leave for Monaco at seven, but just as they were queuing up all ports had closed. Apparently something had happened to bring all Portkeys into Europe and Asia down. The Portkey officials had given no information, but Harry had explained that often Muggle conflicts or wizard uprisings disrupted the network. England wasn't the only nation with power-hungry wizards.

Whatever was wrong this time, it had to be serious, Ginny thought with a sigh. The seating area was crowded with grumpy, agitated wizards and witches. Children too young for Hogwarts fidgeted and complained to their parents, and somewhere behind her a baby started to cry. A younger couple were speaking in Spanish and consulting a guide near the Help Desk.

As noisy as the place was, Ginny wasn't too bothered by the delay. It wasn't like she'd reach Australia today and she wasn't in a hurry, anyway.

Yawning, she looked back at _The Quibbler_, smiling a little as she saw Luna Lovegood's name under an article titled _The Truth About Muggle U.F.O's_. She had no idea what a U.F.O. was but it sounded like something Luna would believe in.

Even as she tried to read the article, Ginny's mind drifted toward Harry. She had woken up surprisingly calm and collected, and even his appearance at her door hadn't shaken her as much as she thought it would. Or perhaps she was just getting good at hiding her feelings, even from herself. Probably she was just relieved to finally be doing something, and her stern, self-given talking-to probably helped.

_You're going to act normal. You don't have to pretend like before, but you don't need to burst into depressive hysterics. Whatever happens will happen. If you're hurt, it's your own damn fault. If Harry never wants to see you again, then fine. Just don't let him get close again, that's all. _

And so far, things had gone well. Not brilliantly, but well enough. Harry hadn't pried, he didn't try to make small talk, and he didn't act like she was going to burst into hysterics. Well, not after a few hours. She still caught him watching her from time to time, but she tried her best not to react.

When her stomach growled, Ginny put down _The Quibbler _and dug around in her satchel for a few knuts and sickles.

"I'm going to get some food," she told Harry. "You want anything?"

He shook his head, glancing up briefly. "I had a big breakfast. Your Mum thought I wouldn't eat for a week."

Ginny nodded, feeling a teensy bit jealous, and then guilty. She still hadn't told her family she was leaving the country. With a small sigh, she turned and went in search of the small food kiosk she'd seen earlier.

From around the corner of _The Daily Prophet_, Harry watched Ginny depart. She looked very much like on Christmas Eve with her eyes darkened, lips a deep maroon, and wearing a black, swishing skirt. The long-sleeved, maroon t-shirt and navy cap were obviously Muggle. Her long, straight hair swayed as her head turned slightly to the left and right. She seemed to only vaguely resemble the Ginny Weasley he'd known at school and summers at The Burrow.

Except he'd known the beginnings of that drawn, haunted look.

Harry sighed and folded the two-days-old _Daily Prophet_. Reaching under his glasses, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd been stuck in a Portkey center before in Russia. It had nearly driven him mad—hardly anyone spoke English—and he'd been asking himself why he was even there.

Which brought his thoughts to Ron and Hermione, who had attended the going-away breakfast Mrs. Weasley had insisted on making. _"When are you coming home for good, Harry dear?" "Why are you staying away, mate? The hype's died down a bit since you've been gone." "Harry, we really miss you."_

He wished he could answer their questions, but he didn't even know the answers himself. As much as he missed Ron and Hermione and the rest of the Weasleys, he knew he wasn't ready to return to England's wizarding world. Away from England he was away from The-Boy-Who-Lived and could just be Harry, whoever he was.

Sometimes he woke up at night wanting nothing more than to return to England. He knew he could never rid himself of the war—it was part of who he was, just as Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys, and the Order (all those dead and alive) were—but he needed to swallow it bit by bit.

"Ugh. Fish and chips," Ginny said, startling Harry out of his thoughts. He sat up quickly and blinked as she sat down, a greasy aroma filling his nostrils. "You'd think they'd have something else, wouldn't you? This is just so . . ." She seemed to struggle for the proper adjective. ". . . Muggle. Are you all right?" she asked, frowning and tilting her head to the side as she dipped a fry into some ketchup.

Harry studied her for a moment, caught by her familiar head tilt. How many times had she looked at him like that? Except usually there was a faint turn of her mouth, as if she were inwardly smiling encouragingly.

"Oh . . . nothing," he lied. "I just have a slight headache."

Behind her dark-lined brown eyes, she gave him a dubious look, but returned to her greasy lunch. "Want a fry?" she offered, holding one out to him.

"No thanks. I'm stuffed."

"Suit yourself."

Harry smiled as Ginny searched for edible pieces to eat. She licked her fingers delicately, and then wiped them on a napkin. As tomboyish as she could be sometimes, Ginny had usually been a proper eater—which generally meant rolling her eyes at Ron's animalistic method for consumption.

"Do you always watch people eat?" Ginny said suddenly, narrowing her eyes at Harry.

"Sorry," Harry said, quickly looking away.

"Huh."

Harry was saved from further humiliation by the call for numbers thirty-three through thirty-eight. Ginny swore softly and trashed the remainder of her meal. Harry smirked at her irritated scowl as he picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

They said nothing as they waited behind party thirty-six, which consisted of three Bulgarian wizards sporting fine cloaks and furs. Harry couldn't help but think of Viktor Krum and, of course, the bickering that resulted between Ron and Hermione. A small pang went through him. He'd barely seen his two best friends over Christmas and he had no idea when he'd be in England again.

Glancing down and to the side, Harry studied Ginny's unreadable face. Was she missing her own friends? Had she bothered to tell them yet? Actually, Harry was grateful for her persistent secrecy; the less people who knew where he was, the better. And it wasn't like he could really argue against secrecy from friends.

"Party thirty-seven!"

Harry startled at the sharp call from the witch at the Rerouting Desk. She reminded him frighteningly of Professor McGonagall with her severe mouth and bun. He quickly handed her the tickets for their cancelled Portkey.

"Mr. Neville Evans, then? And Miss Ginny Weasley?"

Harry nodded and Ginny said, "Yes." He could feel her eyes on him.

"Through the door, then." Matilda (as her name tag said) gestured at the navy door behind the desk.

"Neville Evans, huh?" Ginny hissed as Harry opened the door.

"It'd make these—" he pointed at his chin and cap, "—pretty worthless if I went with my real name, wouldn't it?"

Ginny smirked but kept quiet as they entered an office where a small, portly wizard sat at his desk surrounded by maps full of squiggling lines, times, and dates.

"Hello, hello," the man said hastily, gesturing at the chairs scattered between the door and the desk. "Please, have a seat? We'll try to be as quick as possible." A small plaque said _Mr. Rufus Rankshot – Courtesy, Convenience, and Comfort_.

"Party thirty-seven, yes? Mr. Evans and Miss Weasley? Yes . . . I've got you right here," said Rankshot, unrolling more of the large scroll across his desk. He pushed his spectacles further up his nose, scratched his balding head, and peered with his nose nearly touching the parchment.

"Were you merely passing through the continent, Mr. Evans?" he said after a minute. The small wizard swiveled in his chair and opened a drawer from the cabinet behind him.

"Yes." Harry never completely told the Portkey agencies his final destination, just in case, but if they were being rerouted, then he'd have to be a little more forthcoming. "We were planning to pass through Asia as well."

"Ah, I see. Hmm . . ." Rankshot waved his wand at the open drawer, causing three thick folders to swoop onto his desk. Then he spun again in the chair to consult the large maps behind him, his finger tracing the blue lines, which only seemed to cover the Western Hemisphere. Asia and Africa were flooded with red and black lines. Harry noticed that North and Latin America were substantially less lined in red and black.

"If you're headed for the Far East or Indonesia or Australia, we can put you through the States," Rankshot said after a couple of minutes. "Do either of you Apparate?"

Harry nodded.

"That's good," said Rankshot with a small smile. He opened the first folder and withdrew a sheet of parchment of the United States. "This is a map of authorized Apparition points for international travelers. Stay away from the areas in black—you'll get Splinched.

"Now," he said, turning back to the charts behind him, "I can put you through Virginia at three-forty-two. Richmond'll have some inns for you." As he spoke, the rerouting wizard's wand produced two tickets, and he stamped them with his seal. "Off you go then," he said, handing Harry and Ginny their tickets. "You'll want to head to Gate 4. Have a good afternoon!"

"I think I'm going to be sick," Ginny moaned, gripping her stomach as two wizards on broomsticks whooshed by.

"The potion isn't helping?" Harry asked, squinting in the bright sunshine as he surveyed the busy wizarding section of Richmond, Virginia.

Ginny shook her head—then stopped. The world seemed to spin. She'd never taken such a long Portkey before and hadn't thought it would really be much different from the old shoe they'd all taken to the Quidditch World Cup.

"How come you're not retching?" she said, surveying Harry's face for any green (aside from his eyes). "You hate Floo and Portkeys."

"I got used to it," Harry shrugged. He tossed her a cheeky grin. "And I took a little extra swallow of the potion."

Ginny had the urge to stick her tongue out at him, but her stomach gave another flop so she immediately shut her mouth. No good splattering the sidewalk with fish and chips. Instead she pulled her cloak tighter around her, wishing it wasn't the second of January. She looked at Harry, who had removed his cabbie cap. His hair didn't seem affected by its wear and rippled gently in the winter wind. _Trust Harry not to get hat hair_.

"So," she said, "what do we do now?"

Harry turned, frowning slightly. "Well, it's around eleven here. Do you want to Apparate today?"

"Not at this moment. Can we sit down somewhere?"

Harry led her across the street to a small café that seemed to be preparing for the busy lunch hour. An environment charm had been cast over the outdoor tables. The bright midday sun only enhanced the impression of early summer. Ginny grimaced at the lingering smell of breakfast as she sat down at the white tablecloth table. The waves in her stomach were calming down, but she didn't feel soothed by the tiny ripples. She massaged her temples and closed her eyes, waiting for the nausea to pass.

She remained like that for several moments, breathing deeply and slowly. The sound of parchment unfolding caused her to open her eyes.

Harry was reading the Apparition map. Two glasses of ice-cold water sat in front of each of them, Harry's half-drank. He was scratching his chin, and Ginny wished he'd just step into a toilet somewhere and shave.

"Well?" she asked.

"We can Apparate across the entire continent," said Harry, setting the map down, "or do it in hops. If we do it all at once, I wouldn't recommend doing it today."

Ginny shrugged and leaned slightly over the table to study the map. "Whatever you want to do, you're the expert." Personally, she didn't feel like Apparating anywhere today, but neither did she know what else they could do all afternoon.

"How do you feel?" said Harry, frowning.

"Fine. I'm not going to throw up or anything." Ginny sat back in her chair, wishing he'd look somewhere else.

"How far do you think you can go today?"

"I don't know." She took the map, distinctly aware that Harry could probably Apparate to California from here without a hitch. _I'm probably a burden on him already, and he's too much of a gentleman to say so._

Ginny hadn't seen very many wizarding maps in her life, despite being a witch. She just didn't have much interest in them. Not even when she'd been planning her sabbatical, she hadn't had a chance to consult even a Muggle atlas. However, she was impressed with this one, maybe even more so than the Marauder's Map Harry had shown her in fifth year.

At first glance, it simply showed the states and the blacked-out Splinch areas. Then as her eyes focused on Virginia, Richmond appeared as a red dot. Several blue dots began to pop up in other states, as if the map knew she wanted to see how far she could get. Beside each dot were the city or town name and its coordinates. As her eyes focused on Lexington, Kentucky, a small list of inns, restaurants, and sites appeared below the dot.

Intelligent pieces of parchment unnerved Ginny. She knew it was just charm magic—probably an Optical Direction spell—but she couldn't shake her uneasiness, even with the Marauder's Map, which Harry, Ron, and Hermione revered.

Blinking, Ginny set the map down, fighting the urge to rip it. _I hate you, Tom_, she cursed vehemently. Now she had a full-fledged map phobia.

"What's wrong?" Harry asked, his brow creased in confusion.

"Nothing." She'd never told him she wasn't particularly fond of his godfather's map.

Harry was giving her a funny look. "D'you want to try one state and see how that goes?"

"Sure."

Harry seemed to know where he was going. They entered a park that would have been beautiful in greener weather. Harry led her to the large, sculpted fountain of a sorrowful witch reaching her arms out in a plea.

"I think it has something to do with the Civil War," said Harry as Ginny stared up at the statue. "The plaque says she was a healer masquerading as a Muggle during the siege."

"Oh." Ginny had only a vague idea what Harry was talking about. Somewhere along the line, she'd read about the American Civil War, but she hadn't really given it much thought.

"All right," said Harry, shouldering his pack and withdrawing his wand. "Lexington, then?"

Ginny took a deep breath as she consulted the map again for the right coordinates. If Harry noticed her wince, he didn't say anything. She gripped her wand tightly in her hand, recited the coordinates, and cleared her mind of everything but the numbers and the vision of the map. Then she gave her wand a twist—_Pop!_

Harry Apparated the moment after Ginny disappeared. In an instant the cold park transformed into a back lot of an administration building. He cast around for Ginny and let out a breath of relief to find her adjusting her bag over her shoulder.

"Where next?" she said, walking over to him. Harry tried to detect any weariness in her face, but she was giving him a 'look' and he dared not continue.

"We could try for Kansas City," Harry suggested, taking the map out. "It's a longer distance . . ." He stole another glance. Ginny did look a little tired. Could she handle more than one state at a time? By the time he'd gotten to America, he'd been accustomed to Apparating great distances, but Ginny wasn't used to this yet.

"Great," she said, holding her wand up.

Harry opened his mouth to say something but then closed it and looked down at the map. Ginny might be as stubborn as any other Weasley, but she was smart enough to know when she was too tired to Apparate.

According to the map, Kansas City offered much less than Lexington or Richmond. Harry had skipped over Missouri and Kansas on his brief tour of the States, mostly because the wizard population was extremely thinned out. As much as he needed to get away from the United Kingdom's magical world, he wasn't ready to completely disconnect himself from the only world he belonged in.

He could try for Denver, but he didn't want to push Ginny. _She could probably handle it. Or accuse me of treating her like a little girl_, Harry thought, glancing at Ginny. She'd taken off her navy cap to fidget with it. Although he knew she wasn't a little girl anymore, Harry found he couldn't shake certain memories from his mind at times like this. _Ginny lying as if dead in the Chamber . . . Bellatrix Lestrange pointing her wand . . . Ginny crumpled, white, in the middle of an empty street . . ._

Of course, then there was Ginny yelling at him to get his head out of his arse, ducking under a Bludger to score for Gryffindor, hexing Malfoy with her wicked Bat Bogey, calling Michael Corner an idiot, and arguing fiercely to go to the Department of Mysteries.

Harry pushed his concerns out of his mind and focused on the coordinates to Kansas City. If Ginny felt fine after that, they could push on to Denver. Simple.

"Here," he said, passing her the map.

Ginny didn't take it, but looked at it with narrowed eyes. After a minute she nodded and raised her wand again. "See you there," she said, and then disappeared with a small _Pop!_

Apparating to Denver, Colorado, had been a mistake, Ginny realized the moment she appeared in a snowy courtyard. Cold, icy wind tore through her cloak, instantly exhausting her more than the trip from Kansas City had.

Harry appeared a few feet away. He stumbled slightly against the wind, but he didn't look drained as Ginny felt.

"Let's get inside somewhere!" he called over the wind, hurrying towards her.

Ginny nodded eagerly. High brick walls surrounded the courtyard and each corner had a large pine, but it did nothing to block the wind. The winter current seemed to leap right over the wall and plunge down upon them like a steeplechaser. A wrought iron gate shrieked on its hinges. Harry held it open for her and Ginny dashed through, but fell back against him as a blast of snow pushed in from the street.

She was warm in an instant. Ginny had a ridiculous, romantic sensation that her back against Harry's chest caused the sudden heat, but then she realized his arm was stretching out around her shoulders and his wand was glowing softly. The snow and wind had stopped blasting her, falling against an invisible, curved shield in a three-foot radius around them.

"Well, someone did well on his practical N.E.W.T.'s," said Ginny.

Harry grinned. "Well, perhaps if you'd studied the summer before as Hermione suggested, you'd thought of it too."

"Cheeky prat," she growled. "And you _didn't_ study the summer before."

"Guess I'm just a natural, then," Harry shrugged, that cheeky grin still well in place.

"I just think you've been to Denver before," Ginny scoffed, nudging him. Harry's cocky, teasing grin was infectious, and she started to smile, but she let it fade. Harry shouldn't be looking at her like that, not when she was standing so close, not when _she_ shouldn't be standing so close.

"Come on, let's find somewhere warm," Harry said, his grin vanishing with hers.

_You stupid girl_, Ginny scolded as she stepped into the gray and white world, Harry thankfully a step back.

Harry wasn't the only one casting an impervious charm from the whirling snow. As they proceeded down the street of second and third storey buildings, Ginny saw several bundled witches and wizards hunched against the miserable weather, but a few walked tall and straight, a faint tint of a shield appearing whenever the wind gave a mighty shove. Two young wizards were carrying skis into a large log building full of glowing windows. She was sure if the wind wasn't howling down the street, she would hear hearty laughter. Over the snow-covered rooftops, Ginny could see mountains darkening the gray-white sky that seemed to be pressing into the ground.

"This place has good food," Harry said just behind her shoulder.

Ginny looked to her left and stopped just before she hit the end of Harry's shield. A small, brick building nestled between two three-storey log structures much like the one they'd past, except they looked official rather than welcoming. The brick, however, had bright windows with red-and-white checkered curtains. The window display read _Jane's_ with a slice of cherry pie and a steaming coffee cup underneath.

"Are you hungry?" Harry asked as they stood outside the door.

Ginny could see two old witches chatting adamantly over their coffee and cake, identical books open in front of them. "Yeah, a bit," she admitted, hoping Jane had hot chocolate.

They stepped into a warm, cozy room full of small round tables and a roaring fireplace. At the back of the room was a bakery counter and Ginny could hear the sizzle of a grill in the backroom.

"You didn't tell me Denver was snowy," said Ginny as she and Harry sat down at a table near the window. She glanced outside and shuddered.

"Well, it is winter. And it's not that bad. Hogsmeade's like this." Harry draped his cloak over the back of his chair. "Besides, you like snow."

"Not when it's trying to bury you."

A full-figured witch came bustling from the unseen kitchen then and took their orders after introducing herself as Mama Jane. Ginny sipped her hot chocolate (with marshmallows), feeling exhausted from travel and drowsy from the new heat.

"We should probably stop here for today," Harry said quietly when her eyes drifted shut.

Ginny forced her eyes open. She wished Harry didn't have such emerald eyes, because they seemed to pierce through her better than any other color did. Blast him. "Why?"

"You're tired. It's been a long day."

"The heat's just making me groggy."

Harry raised an eyebrow. He didn't look a bit tired. Maybe a little tense around the jaw and eyes, but not tired. Stupid powerful wizard, anyway. Who knew her a bit better than she'd like right now.

"Fine," she huffed, looking out the window so she wouldn't have to look at him.

Mama Jane returned with their food; Ginny had a club sandwich and a cinnamon role while Harry ate a steak and hash browns, testifying that nothing compared to Midwest beef. Ginny kept silent, both out of weariness and sulking. She didn't begrudge Harry his powers, but she hated the fact she was drained from Apparating and he wasn't. _Or maybe he's just better at hiding it?_

"You'll get better at it," Harry said casually halfway through his steak. "It just takes some time to build endurance."

Ginny gave him an unappreciative look. Harry just cocked another eyebrow and returned to his steak. When supper was over (for them, since they were still on London time), they ventured back into the blustery street. More people were out and about for the lunch hour, ducking into other restaurants and lodges. Harry, his shield up again, brought Ginny to an inn three streets from the one they'd Apparated on.

The Frozen Pine was suitably named, Ginny thought, as she clambered up the steps to the wrap-around porch of the log structure. Ice sickles hung from the roof, nearly touching the drifting snow bank rising up the wall. However, when she stepped inside, she was instantly bathed in warmth and light from three crackling fireplaces and a large candle chandelier. The heady aroma of pine filled her nose as she wiped her boots on the thick rug before stepping into the lobby. To her right the lobby opened into a large sitting area and lounge, where a table of five was playing Exploding Snap.

"Nice," Ginny said, following Harry to the reception desk.

"Welcome to The Frozen Pine," a middle-aged witch greeted them, a courteous smile on her face. "Do you have reservations?"

"Actually, no," said Harry. "Do you have any rooms open, though? We're rather stuck."

"I can check, but it's unlikely," the receptionist said, pursing her lips into a thin line. "It _is_ the holidays, you know." She opened a large ledger and flipped through a page.

Ginny slumped her shoulders. She could curl up on one of the comfortable, cushy couches surrounding the fireplaces if there weren't any rooms available. Just a nap . . .

"It doesn't appear so . . . oh wait," the witch said suddenly, tapping the chart with a maroon nail. "Room thirty-seven had a cancellation. It's one of our smaller rooms, a single, but it does have a queen." She smiled at them, as if she'd given them something special.

_A queen? And I thought America was a democracy_, Ginny thought vaguely, feeling as if she'd missed something important. She looked at Harry for clarification. His cheeks grew slightly pink.

"We can go somewhere else, if you want," he said quietly. "Somewhere with two rooms, or somewhere with at least two, er, beds."

Had Ginny been her old self, she would have burst into laughter at Harry's flustered, embarrassed look. The situation would have been contrived involving anyone else but Harry, especially a flushed, jittery Harry. But Ginny realized quite suddenly that she hadn't given lodging a thought, especially a queen bed. The day had gone fairly well, but could she handle an entire night in Harry's presence? A girl needed a break every now and then . . .

_But I'm going to be dealing with him an awful lot in Australia_. _And it's not like I'm in a stupid romance novel, am I? I can stay in the lounge for awhile or something._

Still . . .

"Is there anything else?" she heard herself saying.

"Probably not," the receptionist said, and Harry jerked his head around to her, as if relieved to hear someone else speak. "Most of the inns are booked."

"It's your call," Harry said, not quite looking at Ginny.

_He's going to insist on taking the floor, like the men always do. And I'm supposed to say he couldn't possibly, let's share, and then . . ._ Ginny inwardly grimaced. She was not in a romance novel, she didn't need to follow a cliché. Besides, did no one in those novels study Transfiguration?

"Let's take it."

Harry gave her a startled look. He seemed slightly uncoordinated as he dug through his money pouch for the American wizard currency he'd converted in Richmond.

"Hey, what's my half?" Ginny asked, reaching into her own cloak for her money.

"Don't worry about it, I've got it."

"Don't be ridiculous, half that room's mine."

"Ginny—"

"No, Harry!" She fixed him with her steeliest glare and set her moneybag on the counter.

Having faced and defeated Voldemort must have done something, because Harry picked up her pouch, grabbed her hand, and put it back, closing his hand over hers. "You can pay for the next one," he said firmly.

"You don't always have to be a gentleman," she muttered, yanking her hand free.

"And you don't always have to be stubborn."

"I am not—" Ginny began, but stopped. It was useless. _He_ was just as stubborn. Harry had an incredible stash of nobility. She should know better than anyone.

Harry paid for the room and took the key. Ginny stuck her tongue out at his back as he headed for the large staircase leading up to the second and third floors. It might be childish, but he deserved it, didn't he? Truthfully, she knew he wasn't doing it because her family was poor or she was a helpless little girl—he was Harry and he was dumping Lockhart's textbooks into her cauldron again.

"Well," said Harry, pausing outside of Room 37, "here we are."

Ginny watched as he ran a hand through his hair. She wondered if he realized how much he did that when he was nervous or frustrated. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Clearly he was thinking about what a queen bed insinuated. Finally, he turned the key and opened the door.

A light flickered on immediately. Ginny followed Harry through the threshold. The room wasn't nearly as small as she'd been expecting, but then again, she'd heard that American hotel rooms were larger than in England. The queen bed did take up most of the room, but there was enough space for a small table, two chairs, and a small loveseat near the popping fireplace.

"Well, I'll take the couch," Harry said, sounding rather relieved as he dropped his bag on it.

"Don't be silly," Ginny said, taking out her wand. Harry opened his mouth to obviously protest, but Ginny ignored him and pointed her wand at the large bed. She transfigured it into a twin and then duplicated it so two smaller beds now stood in its stead.

"Your turn to be clever," Harry smiled.

"I couldn't let you break your back on that tiny thing," Ginny shrugged, nodding at the loveseat. "And you _did_ pay for the room," she added, narrowing her eyes meaningfully.

"Fair enough."


	11. Blizzard

**Chapter Eleven**

"_Blizzard"_

The problem with inns, Harry had quickly discovered, is that there's nothing to do. When he'd stayed at The Leaky Cauldron, he'd been perfectly entertained by Diagon Alley and the load of summer homework assigned. While staying in Muggle hotels, he had TV. Not always very interesting, but something to whittle away the hours. The finer wizarding hotels usually had some form of entertainment going on, but Harry had rarely been to one. The Frozen Pine's attractions were the Great Outdoors, and Harry didn't feel much like skiing in a blizzard.

However, he'd stayed here before and remembered the voluntary library down in the lounge. He had found Ginny sound asleep upon his return. Used to erratic time changes and sleeping patterns, Harry wasn't quite ready for sleep. So he'd propped up his pillows and opened _The Quidditch Quandary_, hoping he was in for a decent read.

Unfortunately, the book was anything but riveting, and halfway through Chapter Three, Harry became distracted by a faint, indiscernible murmuring.

He glanced at Ginny. She was lying on her stomach still dressed in her day clothes, her hair spilling over her back like a fan. One arm was tucked under her pillow, the other dangled over the side of the bed. Her brow was knitted and her mouth moved slightly.

Harry knew enough about bad dreams to recognize the telltale signs. He hadn't witnessed too many, but Ron and Hermione had informed him enough about his own. Knowing how embarrassing it was to have one with witnesses, Harry tried to concentrate on the mediocre book. Hermione always said Harry was the exception to the rule for not waking people during nightmares.

" . . . Harry . . ."

Harry looked up, startled. Ginny's eyes were still closed, but she seemed to curl slightly. Her lips moved soundlessly again until mumbled, slurred words drifted through.

" . . . can't tell Harry . . . he can't know . . ."

What couldn't he know? What couldn't she tell him? Harry leaned onto his elbow, the book completely forgotten.

" . . . no . . . Tom, no . . ."

Harry sucked in a breath. So she was dreaming about the Chamber of Secrets? That'd be what she couldn't tell him.

" . . . he'll hate me . . ." Ginny's face contorted and her fist clenched. " . . . I have to tell him . . . he'll hate me . . . I have to tell him . . ." A pitiful, painful sound escaped her lips as a horrible shudder racked her body. Then she went still, her breathing shallow and uneven, as if she were gasping from pain. "Okay, Tom," she finally whispered, her face slowly relaxing.

Harry couldn't remove his eyes, even though it appeared that the nightmare was over. When he thought about his second year and Tom Riddle, he liked to focus on the basilisk, Fawkes, and Tom Riddle, not Ginny's possession. Thinking that she'd only been dragged into the Chamber one night was easier to digest than a year of Riddle tainting, using, and possessing her.

And to see Ginny surrender like that.

Harry felt ill and wanted to look away. Of course she wouldn't surrender. It took a bloody year of Tom Riddle working on her, and she'd been fighting him, hadn't she? The morning before he took her in the Chamber, she'd been trying to tell him and Ron. How could she surrender in one dream?

_How could you let a door haunt you?_ _How could you let Voldemort into your head to give you false visions?_

Harry swallowed hard. It was time to stop thinking about that.

He lay back against the pillows and lifted the book, forcing dark thoughts out of his mind, but Ginny stirred, and he couldn't stop his eyes from flying back to her limp form.

Her eyes opened and looked straight at him.

Harry knew guilt was probably written all over his face. Ginny stared at him, her eyes dark and wet. Then she lifted her head to glance at the clock on the nightstand (7:37). She paused for a long moment, blinked, and then pushed herself up, swinging her legs over the bed. Without a word, she disappeared into the bathroom, and a minute later, Harry could hear bath water running.

Already a fog was steaming the mirror, blurring her reflection as she stared somberly. At least she wasn't crying or shaking. But the dream was too vivid as it continued to rip through her core after consciousness.

How could he have done this? Ginny wondered, pressing her hands to her cold cheeks. She had plenty of dreams about Riddle, but they were based off of her memories, real life events. How could Tom be leaning over her bed in Denver, twisting her with his slithery whispers? He was dead. Harry had killed him. She shouldn't be having dreams like this.

"_I am in your mind, your body, your soul, Ginny Weasley. I have you. You are not free of me."_

Ginny shuddered and gripped the sink edge.

"_I can still hurt your precious Harry Potter. I can make you tell him exactly what you did. I will smile as he scorns you."_

Those coal eyes burned crimson; she could feel the iciness of his breath on her neck as he leaned closer. _"You are mine, little girl."_

She turned off the bath water. It frothed and bubbled with the complimentary potions made to soothe and rejuvenate. Fog was steadily clouding the small room, clinging to her skin as she slowly undressed. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she felt Riddle's eyes rake over her. _It's my imagination, it's just that stupid nightmare_, she told herself, but her eyes peered nervously through the rising mist.

"You can't hurt me," she whispered. "You're dead. And you can't hurt Harry."

"_I am in you. I can hurt you. I am hurting you. I can use you to hurt Potter more than I already have."_

Ginny bit her lip and dipped a toe into the water. The scalding temperature burned and numbed her foot, but she didn't care. She wanted to burn, to feel pain that couldn't begin to match hers.

"_You're a dangerous traitor. Weak, but dangerous, because I can so easily have you."_

With a deep breath, she plunged her leg into the large tub. She gasped from the instant, fiery pain, clenching her teeth to keep from crying out. After a minute her leg began to numb. Gathering herself for the plunge, she swung her other leg over the ledge and folded her body into the hot, bubbly depths. A cry escaped her lips and tears rolled down her eyes, but she immersed herself in the physical pain.

"_I can make Potter crawl."_

"_He can stop you. I'll tell him."_

A gentle knock at the door.

"Ginny?" Harry called softly. "Are you all right?"

"Of course not," Ginny bit out, her voice wretched from the torture her skin was taking.

"_And I would revel in your pain, little Ginny. I will rejoice at Potter's hate. Your pain keeps me alive."_

"Ginny, it's not your fault," said Harry, his voice thick and distant through the door and fog. "You know it's not."

She didn't answer. If she opened her mouth again, she would sob or scream. Thankfully her body was starting to numb to the heat, the perfumed bubbles starting to cloud her mind. Soon she would be numb to everything.

Harry tried not to look at the door every two seconds. Or his watch. Two hours had passed without a sound or sight of Ginny. He'd tried to read, but the book was hopeless, and so he'd turned to solitaire with Dudley's old deck of cards (which had been discarded after his cousin had found solitaire to be too confusing). The game hardly substituted worry, and Harry was finding it harder and harder to concentrate long enough to move his seven of spades stack under the eight of diamonds.

What could be taking so long? Rumor claimed that girls took awfully long baths, but wasn't two hours getting a bit extreme? And Ginny hadn't sounded all right. _Maybe she's fallen asleep_, Harry reasoned. His eyes shot to the door. What if she had slipped under the water?

Harry set his cards down. Aside from not wanting Ginny to drown or die in any way, he could hardly imagine explaining to the rest of the Weasleys why they'd been sharing a hotel room in the first place.

"Ginny?" he called, knocking his knuckles on the door. She didn't answer. "You . . . you haven't drowned, have you?"

A pause, and then, "Not today."

Harry smiled with relief. He turned to go back to his game, but then Ginny called to him.

"Um, Harry? Can you grab my pajamas?"

"Uh, I guess so . . ." Harry stared at the door. He cleared his throat. "Er—where are they, exactly?"

"In my bag," said Ginny, sounding amused. "I thought about displaying them in the window, but . . ."

Harry hurried over to the travel bag, but he paused before unzipping it. What sort of things did a woman put in her bags? He had a haunting vision of very feminine toiletries and undergarments. Knickers. Taking a step back, he stared at the purple and black bag suspiciously.

"Can you find them?" Ginny called, mistaking his delay. "Dammit, I _know_ I packed them!"

"Uh . . . what do they look like?" _Please not silk or lace_, Harry prayed. He'd have to play solitaire the rest of the night with his back to her.

"Flannel bottoms and the Wheezes t-shirt—it's blue." Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He could handle that. "Oh, and some underwear? Any will do."

No. He could _not _handle _that_.

"Harry?"

"Bloody hell," he swore, grabbing the straps.

He knocked on the door. Ginny opened it slightly. She was wearing a fluffy white towel and her skin was unusually red.

"Here," he said, holding out the bag and trying not to look anywhere but her face.

Ginny raised her eyebrows as she accepted the bag, one hand holding her towel up securely. "You didn't have to get the whole bag."

"I know." Harry wanted to scamper.

"It's just fabric, Harry," she said matter-of-factly. "I've done plenty of laundry at home, including yours."

Harry knew his face was burning. "Oh. Well."

"Whatever. Thanks." She shut the door with a little shake of her head.

Harry let his forehead fall against the door. Honestly! He was nineteen; he should be able to handle something as simple as knickers. Had not Dean and Seamus had a deep, profound discussion on what certain, er, styles meant? Of course, that had ended when Seamus had the nerve to ask Ron what Hermione wore . . .

Vigorously shaking his head, Harry shuffled the deck. He could hear sounds coming from the bathroom, but tried to think about Quidditch. Fluffy white towels, silk nightgowns, and lacey knickers should definitely be cleared of his mind by the time Ginny came out. Otherwise he'd have to leave the room and sleep on a couch down in the lounge.

Maybe this entire trip had been an incredibly bad idea . . .

She took as much time as possible. Outside the steamy, misty world of the bathroom was Harry: a reality as burning as her raw skin. Reality meant sucking it up, pretending; or it could mean confrontation. Ginny didn't want to do either.

The mist clung to her itchy skin. Ginny curled her toes into the bath rug as she set about untangling her heavy, dripping hair. The charms helped, but she wanted to dally in this translucent fog wrapping around her like a cocoon.

She'd just tried to boil herself. But couldn't boil away everything—just stew in the remains.

_Stewing's all I ever do_. "That's why I'm here," she whispered to her reflection. Her freckles disappeared in the blurriness of the foggy mirror. She wiped her palm against the glass and watched her skin curl into water droplets, then slowly blur again.

"Who am I kidding?" she mouthed at the blotchy figure. "I have no idea why I'm here."

_Oh, but you do, don't you?_ a voice whispered silkily in her ear. _You didn't tell Joe, but you know. Why else did you cry all over him?_

Ginny shuddered. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Did she really decide to face Harry to bring the pain and guilt to a head? To end everything once and for all? Did she honestly want to bring herself to the point where she revealed all to him, laid everything before him so he could crush her and finish what Riddle had started?

"Harry isn't Tom." Her words were empty of comfort. Of course Harry wasn't Tom—that's why his repulsion would end her.

And she wanted the end.

Ginny opened her eyes. The mirror had cleared. She stared at the blotchy, white-toweled girl with tired, sunken eyes. If her skin hadn't been smarting from the liquid torture, she knew it would have been very pale with only a smattering of color. Leaning over the sink, she studied her reddened eyes. Had she passed herself on the street, she would have felt immense pity for the pathetic, ragged girl . . .

"I want this to end," she told the girl. "I just don't think I can."

The girl only stared pleadingly back.

Ginny scowled and turned away. Nothing was going to be solved tonight. Harry was outside, and she'd just have to face him.

Having finished detangling her hair, she plaited it into two long braids. Then she dressed, wishing she had silk bottoms rather than flannel on her sore skin. When she couldn't find any other conceivable reason to delay, Ginny took a deep breath and stepped out.

Harry seemed to be trying hard to be nonchalant, but Ginny had learned long ago when Harry was faking. His feet were propped up on the table (Hermione would have thrown a fit), the chair tipped back, and he wore a very serious look as his eyes remained frozen over the opened book. Playing cards were strewn about the table.

"Good book?"

"Not really," Harry shrugged. He waited a perfect three seconds before looking up, as if he had to finish a paragraph or sentence.

Ginny set her bag on her bed before taking the other chair. The fireplace was crackling. She felt restless, too confined. Squinting at the book, she frowned. "Since when are you into romance novels?"

"What?" Harry flipped the book over, his eyebrows lost under his fringe. He stared at the cover for a moment before turning to the back. "It doesn't say anything about being a romance novel . . ."

"Here," Ginny sighed, holding out her hand. Harry relinquished the worn paperback. She studied the cover of _Quidditch Quandary_, which seemed innocuous enough, except that the Keeper was incredibly good-looking with his longing gaze directed not at the Chaser launching the Quaffle at his hoop, but the daring, gorgeous-looking Seeker hovering up and slightly to the right.

Trying not to laugh, Ginny studied the summary on the back. Harry obviously hadn't read carefully. _"Renton Mondrian is on the way to fulfilling his only dream of playing International Quidditch and winning the World Cup. When he makes Keeper for Puddlemere United, it seems that nothing can stop Renton. Then, during the Cup trials, an opposing team Seeker, Ashton Kensington, enters his life. Renton faces rivalry beyond sportsmanship. Can he stay loyal to both his team and heart?"_

"Harry," said Ginny, trying hard not to laugh. "You do know Ashton's a girl, right?"

"Well, yeah, the description cleared that up . . ." Ginny raised her eyebrows and Harry frowned defensively. "Just because the girl is . . ." He seemed to grope for the word appropriate to use in front of another girl.

"Ravishing?" Ginny supplied. "I'm quite sure 'ravishing' came in there somewhere."

"How did you know?"

"The heroine of any romance novel is going to be ravishing, Harry." Ginny thumbed the pages, noticing where Harry dog-eared it. Could he really have gotten through a third of the book without realizing it was a stupid romance?

"Look," said Harry, sounding annoyed, "I just picked it up in the lounge. There's not much to do during a blizzard."

"_Sor_-ry." Ginny set the book down and folded her arms, resting her chin in the fold. She studied the card game on the table. It was vaguely familiar, she must have seen it played by some of the Muggleborns at Hogwarts. Of course, all she and her brothers had ever done with cards was Exploding Snap. In the Weasley house, a game without destruction or mayhem wasn't worth the effort.

"It's Solitaire," Harry explained, picking up a stack of cards showing their backs.

As she watched, Harry gathered up the cards, shuffled, and dealt, wearing a contemplative expression. He seemed to be collecting himself, and as his eyes flicked toward her, Ginny had a very bad feeling about it. _He's going to tread ground we haven't touched in years,_ she feared, wondering how to avoid it.

Carefully laying his Ace of Diamonds above the line of seven card stacks, Harry said quietly, "Do you still have nightmares often?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Ginny snapped. She wanted to glare at him levelly, but she couldn't meet his eye. Green was too piercing a color.

Harry's thumb twitched on the back of his card hand. "We used to always talk about our nightmares," he said softly, and she could feel the restrained hurt in his throat.

"I didn't realize I was _required_ to," she said coldly, sitting up.

"Ginny—"

But she wasn't listening. Her skin was alive and crawling. "I'm going for a walk," she said coolly.

"But the blizzard—"

"Not _outside_." Ginny dug into her bag for the writing journal and pen she'd brought along. She couldn't be in this room with Harry's worried, inquiring gaze.

"Look, I didn't mean to—" Harry began, but Ginny only shook her head and firmly shut the door behind her.

Worried that he would follow her, Ginny hurried down the corridor past the repetitive doors until she reached the stairs. Surely he wouldn't make a scene down in the lounge . . .

But he didn't follow, and Ginny relaxed enough not to alarm anyone as she came down the last staircase to the dimmed lobby. One fireplace still crackled for late arrivals, but the desk was closed. However, the lounge held more patrons than earlier, many of them conversing quietly on stools at the bar. Three chess games were going on, and Ginny could smell the evidence of a recent round of Exploding Snap.

Scanning the room, she found a secluded corner away from the chattering minglers. An old, lumpy brown chair was tucked into the corner. Ginny sank gratefully into the familiar, squishy contours of beaten furniture. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself sitting in the Gryffindor common room again.

Unfortunately, along with the comfort of crackling fireplaces, howling wind, Exploding Snap, and lumpy furniture, the Gryffindor common room was also rather social. Ginny pulled out her wand and cast a Distraction Charm over her corner to prevent any socialites from dropping in for a chat.

Once she was comfortable, legs folded and journal resting on her right knee, Ginny took to pen.

It was nearly four in the morning when Ginny finally crept back into her and Harry's room. Although a lamp remained lit and the fireplace glowed, it was dark and quiet with Harry's slumbered breathing providing any indication that it was indeed occupied.

Sighing quietly, Ginny put away her journal and flexed her sore fingers. Her writings were becoming too personal, even if she tried to write as if they weren't. She didn't want another diary. Oh no. But the dream had unnerved her far more than any of the others, even the ones with Malfoy's malicious, greedy eye and MacNair's dead body.

_They're not just memories, anymore. He's speaking to me. He knows he can take me again, because I am weak. I've always been weak._

She shuddered, and then shook herself sharply to clear her mind. Riddle couldn't take her again. He didn't have the diary. It had been destroyed and Voldemort was gone forever.

"What is there for you to feed off, anyway?" Ginny murmured darkly, tossing her bag on the floor as she pulled back the bed covers.

She'd surrendered a long time ago.

Shivering, Ginny burrowed deep into the covers. Physically and mentally exhausted, sleep quickly won over her disturbing thoughts.


	12. Terminal

Chapter Twelve

"_Terminal"_

"Ginny."

Harry stared at the curled form clutching a pillow at the center of the small bed. Ginny's face was buried in her tucked knees, one arm draped over her head, reminding Harry distinctively of a cat shading her eyes under her paw. It really didn't look too comfortable.

"Ginny," he repeated when she didn't stir. It was five after eight, and although Harry did enjoy a good lie-in, he also knew that the Portkey terminals were going to be long.

She still didn't stir. Harry stepped closer and gently poked her arm. "Ginny, time to get up." Still nothing. How long had she been up last night? He'd waited up until one before realizing she'd probably be very irritated to know he'd done so. "Giiiiiinny," he tried again, hoping to annoy her now. "Up you get."

Ginny twitched and made a negative sound. Harry smirked and gave her arm another prod.

"Come on, big day today," he said, trying to sound as ridiculously cheerful as possible. "Australia!"

"Uh-uh." Ginny uncurled slightly and rolled onto her stomach, burying her face in the pillow. "I wan seep . . ."

Harry grinned. She reminded him of another certain Weasley in the morning . . . Of course, she would skin him alive if he used the same tactics on her that he used on Ron. A pull on one of those long braids would definitely work, but once again, Harry wanted to actually return to Australia. And not in a very small box.

"I'll drag you out of bed," Harry warned.

She shook her head and grunted.

"I could do it. Magic or not. Your choice."

Ginny burrowed deeper into the bed and Harry was certain he'd just been called something very foul.

"Okay, then." Harry unceremoniously took hold of her forearm and started tugging gently but firmly. Ginny groaned grumpily and tried to swat him, but Harry kept out of range. "None of that now."

"You . . . are an insufferable . . . git!" Ginny grabbed her pillow and threw it at him, but Harry easily ducked and tried not to grin at her sleep-blotched face as she sat up. She glared blearily at him, sleep-mussed hair frizzing around her temples and ears.

"Good morning," Harry greeted, letting go of her arm.

Ginny rubbed it grouchily. "What time is it?"

"After eight. We should have been in Los Angeles by now."

She sniffed, then rubbed her sleep-heavy eyes and yawned. Harry looked away as she stretched—the Wheezes t-shirt was loose, but not _that_ loose.

"They serve breakfast until nine in the lounge," he said.

"Great."

Thirty minutes later, they were walking through the snowy streets to their Apparation point from the previous night. Ginny was as quick as any male in the bathroom in the morning (a result from living with so many brothers), but she didn't come out looking like one. Once again, she wore the dark eye make-up, but she'd let her hair down so that it fell in waves after sleeping in the braids. He stared at the brilliant contrast of her hair against her black cloak as they traipsed to the tiny courtyard.

"At least the sun is shining," she grumbled, as they watched a portly wizard remove a drift of snow in front of his shop with his wand.

"Yeah." Harry couldn't think of anything to say. Breakfast had felt strained after the failed conversation last night. Ginny had kept quiet and failed to meet his eyes again.

When they reached the courtyard, which thankfully had been cleared of snowdrifts, she asked, "Are we going straight to Los Angeles?"

Harry searched her face for signs of weariness. She looked exhausted as before, but he could sense that her strength was back, or at least she looked determined and stubborn enough. And she didn't have that long Portkey across the Atlantic to disorient her.

"If you want."

She gave a short nod. "I just want to get there."

Her voice was terse and low, making Harry want to stare and figure out what was wrong, but he quickly brought out the Apparation map. Somehow he doubted her behavior would be any different in Australia, but it was worth a shot, anyway. Once again he was left wondering about Ginny's intentions and how he could be involved in them.

"Okay," she said, after she'd studied the map in his hands. Withdrawing her wand, she gave him a slight smile and Disapparated.

Harry waited a moment, taking in the snowy courtyard that seemed to be an inverted snowdrift. He had a peculiar urge _not_ to go to Los Angeles. Life had simply been easier before Christmas Eve—purposeless and wandering but definitely much easier. Not that Harry had any habit of shirking from challenges or turmoil, but he didn't like how dependable elements of his life seemed to continuously slip away during and after the war. Everything was supposed to be okay now, everyone was supposed to move on and be happy and content.

_Seems everyone has moved on but me and Ginny_.

Nudging the deep snow with his booted toe, Harry mulled over this idea. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Ginny's depleted cheerfulness and behavioral change could easily be explained as a consequence of the war. Why hadn't anyone else thought of that? Intentionally helpful, concerned questions had pestered Harry all through that strange, stressful year after Voldemort's permanent defeat, but Ginny had been off at Hogwarts, away from the hovering. Maybe she'd slipped everyone's mind . . .

No, that couldn't be right. Harry knew the Weasleys, and somehow he couldn't imagine Molly or Arthur Weasley, let alone any of the other Weasleys, forgetting about Ginny and passing her off just because she wasn't present.

Still, maybe she had just been really good at pretending. Harry had thought he was a regular expert at pretending by the end of his seventh year, but Ron, Hermione, and Remus had called him on it and all but banished him from Auror training and reconstruction. Besides, Ginny wasn't exactly pretending to be perfectly fine, that was for sure. _Maybe she's tired of pretending . . ._

Harry kicked gently at the snow and pulled out his wand, realizing that it had been several minutes since Ginny had disappeared for Los Angeles. Glancing quickly at the map, Harry found his coordinates and then Disapparated to the Los Angeles International Portkey Terminal, hoping Ginny wouldn't be too upset about his delay. How could he explain that?

Noise assaulted Ginny's ears the moment she Apparated into LAIP Terminal 12. Blinking, she tried to reorient herself, but someone firmly grabbed her by the arm and dragged her over to a gate. Loud cracks and pops seemed to follow in her wake. Turning her head, she saw witches and wizards appearing and stepping quickly toward the gate she was being led to.

"Wait!" she exclaimed, jerking her arm free from the Apparition official clutching her arm.

The wizard rolled his eyes. "You must clear the area _immediately_, miss," he said impatiently, reaching for her arm again. "Have your papers ready—"

"But I'm with someone—"

"I'm sure they'll be here at any moment. Now _clear the area_!"

Ginny opened her mouth to protest, but the wizard, several inches taller than her and with stern lines around his mouth and eyes, gave her a quelling look. She hurried after him toward the gate.

Grumpy and bored looking wizards and witches in uniform were directing the new arrivals to form an orderly queue and present all papers. Ginny fell in behind a slouched wizard, but craned her neck around to watch the Apparition area for any sign of Harry. She couldn't spot him anywhere.

Feeling uneasy, Ginny shuffled forward with the queue, constantly turning around to see if Harry had arrived yet.

"What's your problem?" the American wizard behind her demanded after about the fifth time she'd done this. He wore a Quodpot jersey and cap and seemed very impatient.

"I'm looking for someone," Ginny said, craning her neck around as he shifted and blocked her view.

"The line's _moving_," the Quodpot fan growled. "So _move_. Your friend's probably Splinched. They have a desk you can check in about that."

Ginny shot the man a dark look. Biting her lip worriedly, she obligingly moved forward, but couldn't resist looking back again. What could possibly be keeping Harry? Had something happened to him? Did he get Splinched, or had something worse happened? Could one of Voldemort's desperate followers have tracked Harry down and wanted to wreak a little revenge?

She was going to be sick.

"Damn it, Harry, where are you?" she muttered under her breath as she neared the front of the queue. Risking the man's irritation, she peered again around him, and nearly toppled over with relief.

Harry stood near the end of the queue, similarly peering over and around people to spot her. When he met her eyes, he gave a little sheepish wave and smile, but Ginny only glared. He owed her an explanation when he got through the gate.

About five minutes later, the queue of traveling wizards and witches in front of her cleared, and she was staring at bored witch holding out her hand as a wizard waved his wand over her, a faint blue light emanating from its tip.

"Your papers," the witch stated blandly.

Ginny quickly handed over her passport and the documentation given to her in Richmond. Although she'd also been searched for any human transfiguration, Polyjuice, and other such forms of disguise, the blue light still unnerved her. Harry's Distraction Charm, despite being a form of disguise, would not register in the search because it was too "vague" to pinpoint _what_ it disguised.

"Do you have your tickets?" the Apparition official wanted to know as she handed Ginny's papers back.

"No."

"The booking station will be to your right. Thank you, have a nice day."

"Yeah . . . you too." Ginny knew for certain she could never become an Apparition Officer.

Hurrying through the gate, Ginny shoved her papers back into her bag and found a spot off to the side to wait for Harry. This earned her some suspicious looks, but she ignored them. When Harry did finally come through the barrier with his Neville Evans papers, Ginny crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows expectantly.

"Sorry," Harry said the moment he was within earshot. He looked a bit cowed even before she spoke.

"What took you so long?" Ginny demanded. "Did you walk here or something?"

"I said I was sorry," said Harry, sounding both apologetic and irritated. He motioned toward the booking station. "Come on, maybe we can still get a morning Portkey."

Ginny followed him, but she still wanted a reason for her worry. "So, what happened?"

"Nothing."

"What? You just stood around for awhile and _then_ decided to Apparate?" Did that mean he'd had second thoughts about bringing her to Australia? Had he stood there in the snow thinking about just turning around? At that thought, Ginny stopped dead and felt the blood rush to her toes.

Harry, sensing her halt, paused and turned around, a little pink appearing in his cheeks. "Well . . . yes?" He licked his lips and gave a helpless little shrug. "Look, I just got . . . lost in thought, okay?"

_Lost in thought?_ Ginny stared at him. It was too dumb of an excuse, even for Harry, not to be true. She shook her head and marched past him. "Whatever. Come on, Plato."

_Wow, I've really been out of the big picture_, Ginny thought, disconcerted, as she read _The Los Angeles Chronicles_'s article on the Portkey delays and disturbances from New Year's Day through yesterday. _"Yesterday international travelers were still frustrated with the European and Asian Portkey routes due to the boisterous ringing of the New Year. Officials report that pranksters and wizards with Muggle heritage caused most delays. Although the calendar year for 2000, the new millennium, is a few years off the planetary charts, Muggles-experts have reported a widespread Muggle panic over an event named Y2K, that threatened to shut down all electronic systems (a Muggle substitute for functional magic)."_

Now that Ginny thought about, she remembered Joe muttering something about people stocking up old bomb-shelters with food and the End of the World. Fred and George had been plotting something for New Year's Eve, but Ginny had not been in an attentive state of mind.

The rest of the article covered some of the widespread pranks, along with interfering Muggle disputes through the designated Portkey routes. She remembered the griping witch and Southampton, thankful that everything seemed to be running on schedule so she wouldn't suffer through any more complaints.

Not that running on schedule was fantastic. Ginny folded her newspaper and glanced at her watch. Half past noon, and here they were, still stuck in bloody, smoggy Los Angeles with witches and wizards speaking countless languages. Every so often, a roar would rush overhead—an airplane landing or taking off—and children would start to cry. Apparently Muggles had built their airport right over the Portkey center, sending the magical world's operation below ground. Compensating rather poorly for this, decorative illusionists charmed "windows" to view different areas of Los Angeles, but Ginny couldn't see its appeal.

"Are you done with that?" Harry said, seated beside her, pointing to the folded newspaper.

"Yeah, here." She handed it to him, still feeling awkward about her outburst earlier.

Virtually nothing else had been said between them since.

Ginny massaged her temples and closed her eyes. It was _her_ fault that things were so strained and awkward, after last night. Well, after Draco Malfoy had dropped her off in that field, really . . .

The crackling of an unfolding newspaper brought Ginny out of her dark thoughts. She glanced at Harry. He'd completely shed his cloak and winter clothes and stuffed them in his bag, and the cap and facial hair were gone (thank goodness). Although she wouldn't say he looked relaxed, he did look a bit less tense than in Southampton.

"What's Australia like?" she asked suddenly, surprised by an abrupt urge to talk.

Harry's eyebrows jumped under his fringe, but he quickly turned thoughtful and set the paper down. "I don't know . . . It's hot right now, 'cause their winter and summers are backward from ours . . ." He shrugged and gave her a sheepish little smile. "It's sort of like a hot, really laid-back England . . . only not."

Ginny snorted. "That's . . . descriptive."

"Well, we colonized it with criminals and such," Harry shrugged. "Not that everyone's a thief or murderer." He scratched the back of his neck. "It's just . . . _nice_. It's not England. I'm—" Pausing, he looked down at his shoes, a little red appearing in his cheeks, then said lowly, "I'm not a—a big deal—over there."

_Ah_, Ginny thought. Why would people living halfway around the world care what went on in England? Aside from Quidditch, of course . . . She wondered if perhaps the Australian wizards wanted to cut themselves off from the "Mother Country" now that Australia was a separate nation. It would definitely explain Harry's lack of fame down there.

But it wasn't really what Ginny realized she wanted to know. Studying Harry out of the corner of her eye, she bit her lip and tried to quell the unsettling sensation in her chest. Not once had Harry mentioned his roommate, other than to pass along that he'd sent Hedwig back with a letter to her about Ginny's "visit." Not until he spoke of her did Ginny realize that she'd be living, if only temporarily, with the gorgeous Australian witch that had been _living with Harry for months_.

As she watched Harry read the Y2K article, Ginny fought the urge to come right out and ask him just what sort of relationship he had with Renee Blackstone. _It's not my business. It shouldn't matter to me if Harry's living with a witch._ Needing distraction, she bent down to her travel bag, its strap locked around her ankle to prevent possible thievery, and withdrew a portable CD player and a small carrying case.

She smiled a little at the permanent black words scrawled all across the silver machine. _May your Sad Eyes find Solace and Crinkle at the corners. Don't forget about your friends at home. Love from, Joe and Alyson_.

"What's that?"

Ginny jerked a little but managed to keep hold of the delicate machine. She glanced at Harry, feeling inexplicably guilty. "A CD player. Joe gave it to me as a going away present."

"Oh." Harry's brow furrowed and Ginny could have sworn he gave the player a frown. "I know what a CD player is, by the way. Didn't you already have one? Hermione mentioned you listening to one at Christmas."

Feeling her cheeks warm at the word "Christmas" and why she'd been listening to music, Ginny struggled to pull off a casual shrug. "I borrowed Joe's player a lot, so he probably just bought this one to keep me from swiping his before I left."

By the way he'd pressed his mouth tight, Ginny knew Harry wanted to say something more. Instead, he turned back to the paper, and she let out an inaudible sigh of relief. Good, he wasn't going to interrogate her—

"So, are you and Joe, you know . . ."

He stared at the newspaper carefully, his voice studiously casual, but then Harry's eyes slipped toward her, and Ginny resorted to studying the twelve burned CDs Joe had made for her.

"No," she said shortly. She delicately removed the first CD and placed it in the player.

"Really?"

Ginny shut the lid with a snap. "Your roommate's really pretty."

Once again, Harry wore his Frown of Perpetual Confusion. "What does that have to do anything?"

"I was just making an observation," Ginny shrugged, unable to disguise her bitterness. However, she could fight the burning in her cheeks, and she did so, despite her embarrassment for snapping and so obviously turning the focus on Harry's love life. "She's pretty. My brothers are jealous you're living with her."

Still staring in apparent bewilderment, Harry shrugged and muttered, "I s'pose so." He ran a hand through his hair and turned away to watch the milling international travelers.

Ginny watched him for a moment. She wanted to know, right now, what sort of living situation she'd be dealing with in Sydney. If she was interrupting anything, she could bail out before things got any more awkward.

"So are you and Renee, you know . . . more than flat mates?" Ginny cringed as Harry turned back toward her, looking thoroughly unsettled before narrowing his eyes.

"No, of course not." He paused, and then raised his eyebrows slightly, expectantly. "Why?"

_Ron has influenced you way too much_, Ginny thought darkly, keeping her face impassive. "I didn't want to interrupt anything."

"Renee's always having people over," Harry shrugged. "One more isn't going to bother her."

Ginny wanted to know what he meant by that, but she didn't know how to ask it without implying something that her mother would have thought indecent. Instead, she said, "Sounds crowded. Do you mind?"

Harry suddenly grinned. "It's kind of like summers at the Burrow sometimes. Only without your Mum's cooking and all that ginger hair." His eyes fell to the hair spilling over her shoulder, and Ginny felt something wistful stir inside her. Then Harry's grin faded and he looked away.

Not wanting to see the dark shadow fall over his features, Ginny quickly pushed play and closed her eyes, settling back into her seat as guitar chords vibrated through her head.

According to the scenery-duplication along the stonewalls, rain began to spatter the tarmac above. The storm had come up quite suddenly, and as Harry tried to find a comfortable spot in his chair, he couldn't help but believe that the weather was being just a bit too metaphorical.

The past hour had been anything but sunshine, in Harry's mind.

Ginny had not emerged from her gift from Joe. She slouched a bit in her chair, eyes closed, and only showed signs of consciousness when she switched CDs. Then she would resume her sunken pose, arms draped over her stomach, chin down, and nod for a bit before coming still again.

Harry didn't like to think he'd been staring at her from the corner of his eye, but he had a sinking feeling that he'd been passing more than a casual glance every now and then. He couldn't help but be a little surprised that she had not yet yelled him out for having a staring problem like at Christmas.

That had been embarrassing.

Harry cringed. Rubbing at a crick in his neck, he continued trying to fathom the conversation—or was it an argument?—he'd had with Ginny a little over an hour ago. If he didn't know better (and he probably didn't), he would say that Ginny seemed rather jealous and bitter about him living with Renee, a _woman_. But she were indeed upset by that, and therefore jealous . . .

_But that can't be it_, Harry told himself for the hundredth time. Ginny had made it quite clear years ago that she harbored none of _those_ feelings for him, and therefore, she could not possibly be jealous of Renee Blackstone.

But it'd certainly seemed like it, because her tone had matched his, and Harry recognized rather clearly that he was jealous of Joe.

Joe who came over for supper, Joe who gave her meaningful looks, Joe who gave her a going away present and had 'Love from' written on said gift . . .

Joe who was still in England.

Harry latched onto this comforting fact. If Ginny truly liked Joe like . . . like _that_, then she wouldn't have left him behind, right?

_Still doesn't help me out, though. _Sighing, Harry cast Ginny another bemused look. Faint strains filtered through her headphones, but he couldn't really make the music out. She seemed to be asleep; her neck seemed to be losing tension as she swayed slightly, her head tilted toward Harry, and the tension left her jaw.

With several hours to go before their Portkey was called, Harry decided to nap as well. He cast a Perimeter Spell around them to ward off possible thieves or other bothersome vagrants (at least the anti-soliciting spells left one less thing to worry about) around them. He only wished that the chairs didn't have the anti-Transfiguration wards to prevent careless or forgetful magic harming an unsuspecting traveler just sitting down for a rest or wait.

Then Harry tried to relax his back into a slouch and stretched out his legs. Hoping he wasn't trespassing any boundaries, he stretched his left arm over the back of Ginny's chair, and let his head fall against his shoulder and forearm. Unfortunately, his neck didn't find this comfortable and his shoulders didn't provide much cushion.

He dug into his rucksack and wadded up his Christmas present from Mrs. Weasley. Tucked between his head and his forearm, the jumper made a suitable pillow.

An unconscious Ginny must have thought so too, because she swayed a bit before sort of flopping against Harry's shoulder, making an incoherent little sound.

Harry went very still as Ginny's head burrowed for the jumper and even reached up to claim more of the material that wasn't pillowing his head. She had nearly all of it before Harry had the mind to keep hold of his last remaining portion of head comfort.

At this, Ginny gave a little growl before dropping her hand and going still again.

When Harry was certain that she wasn't about to do anything else weird and unexpected, he closed his eyes.

She felt deliciously warm and safe. Although her neck seemed to ache a little, the familiar material against her cheek seemed to slowly seep into the perpetual cold inside her. Dimly her ears registered the buzzing racket around her, but that too dulled in comparison to the lovely warmth at her side.

Strange how the warmth seemed to move slightly, and she could hear a low sort of throbbing somewhere nearby. How odd . . .

Just as she started to become less aware of warmth, throbs, or noise, a very deep rumbling vibrated through the warmth and the entire thing seemed to tense and move, making her neck hurt more.

Not liking this one bit, she groaned and tightened her grip on the lovely warmth. It stilled immediately, and in her vague state, she smiled a bit in triumph. That'd teach the lovely warmth to try to escape from _her_ . . .

And again that rumbling!

Not just rumbling, but also something kept jabbing her arm, and the noise was getting louder.

Pain shot down her neck. She tried to adjust it, but as she did so, the noise got louder and the warmth moved.

And someone kept saying her name.

More to save her neck than concede victory to the jabbing and the noise, Ginny slowly opened her eyes. Groggy consciousness let her know several things in quick succession: she'd been sleeping in the Portkey terminal, Harry was poking her arm, and she was nestled against him with only a Christmas jumper between them.

_Oh Merlin . . ._ Ginny immediately shut her eyes again, but she sensed no change around her or sleep returning. Hearing her own heart beating now, she slowly opened her eyes again and forced her breathing to be inaudible and steady. She could already feel the heat in her cheeks and knew it wasn't just heat transference from Harry's body—

Heat transference from Harry's body.

With a little gasp, Ginny shot up and slammed back into her chair. The world spun dizzily for a moment and the warmth fell away.

_Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!_ Through the ruckus her panicked thoughts and pounding heart were making, she glance at Harry out of the corner of her eye shoving his jumper back into his rucksack. His cheeks were slightly pink.

Harry looked up at her. Behind the obvious embarrassment and uncertainty, she detected an impish, amused glint in his eyes.

"You fell asleep," he said simply, and then as an afterthought, "and took my pillow."

Ginny dropped her eyes to her boots and bit her lip. What could she say? Once when her family had gone camping and she'd had to share a blanket with seven-year-old Ron, he'd complained in the morning that she'd taken all the pillows and the blanket and had kicked whenever he'd tried to get something back.

"They're calling our key, come on," said Harry.

Cursing softly under her breath, Ginny untangled her bag from her ankle and followed Harry, her cheeks still burning. _Oh you snuggled right up to him, didn't you? And attacked him for the bloody jumper. Nice one. From now on, no bodily contact with Harry, no falling asleep in the same room as him, and definitely NO BLUSHING!!_

Even as she silently lectured herself and followed Harry to Gate 345, she couldn't help but yearn for that feeling of being so close to Harry and unaware of anything else. A sharp pain started in her gut. She knew this emotion, this agony, way too well. It was the same feeling she got whenever she thought about that one kiss—

"Ginny," Harry nudged her. "Your ticket."

Ginny stared up at him, confused. Her eyes drifted to his mouth; the pain in her stomach intensified, shooting up to her chest.

"Ginny?"

_Oh no, it moved._

"Are you all right?"

"Sir, if you don't hurry, you'll miss your Portkey. It's at least another day before you can get another ticket."

"Just hold on, okay?" said Harry tersely. Then, gently, "Ginny? What's wrong?"

She forced her eyes to pull away from his mouth and took in Harry's concerned face. She could read the fear in his eyes, the fear that she had changed her mind. Could likewise see her pain?

Immediately, she dropped her gaze to the floor. Her black boots faced off with Harry's worn trainers.

"If . . . if you don't want to come, that's fine," Harry said slowly.

Still looking down, Ginny shook her head. Going back to England seemed unbearable, even if she had no idea how going to Australia with Harry would be any better.

"No," she said quietly, lifting her face and forcing herself to meet Harry's gaze. "I'm coming with you."

Harry's eyes widened, and she felt even sicker at the hope there. "Really? You're sure?"

The moment had truly come.

She knew she couldn't get away from her pain just by relocating, but she knew she would regret this if she said no.

"Yes," she said resolutely. "I'm sure."


	13. Welcome to Oz

Chapter Thirteen

"_Welcome to Oz"_

Countless hours lost in time zones, datelines, and Kneazle customs inspections later, Harry and Ginny emerged into a narrow alley behind Kings Cross Station in Sydney, Australia, feeling ragged and exhausted.

Although Harry knew what to expect, he still balked a bit at the difference in climate as, wand still well in hand, he peered through the shadowy alley. Behind him in the station the monorail hissed to a stop. He squinted upward at the bit of sky available to him between the buildings. Judging by the light, it was half-past six in the morning.

"C'mon," he said to a yawning, bleary-eyed Ginny. She looked ready to drop on her feet, and he imagined he looked about the same. A Portkey across the Pacific Ocean was nothing to sneeze at, nor the relentless inspection of custom officers and their special kneazles that could spot unsavory, suspicious characters and contents faster than Mad-Eye Moody. The strange-looking, catlike creatures had not appreciated Ginny's CD player, but after an hour, the officers had released it to her.

However, as Harry led Ginny down the narrow alley and onto the sidewalk of Victoria Street, he couldn't help but feel some of his weariness disappear as the summer morning warmed his bare arms.

Sydneysiders were hurrying down the station steps to catch the next train to City Centre, but others were choosing to walk the distance and stroll through Hyde Park for some morning air, cell phones pressed to their ears and large styrofoam cups of coffee in their hands. Groggy-eyed, haggard nightlifes were also nursing caffeine as they dragged themselves into apartments and cafes. However hurried or disgruntled these Muggles looked, Harry knew that just east, behind him, several others were sinking their toes into the sands of Bondi Beach and chatting as they waxed their surfboards.

Suddenly feeling eager for the salty air before the sun rose to a scorching height, Harry turned to Ginny and was pleased to see that her eyes were slightly more open as she took in her surroundings.

"Ginny?"

She blinked and looked at him; she seemed slightly surprised to see him. "Hmm?"

"Er—how tired are you?"

Ginny raised her eyebrows slightly, but then yawned in answer. When she'd finished, she blinked again and adjusted her travel bag. "Quite a bit. Why?" She tilted her head slightly and peered closely at him, tangled hair falling across her face from the messy, sloppy knot she'd tried to put it in earlier. "Did you need to stop somewhere before we go to your flat?"

Her cheeks colored a bit as her eyes trailed away at the word "flat."

Harry looked up at the sky again, wishing he didn't feel so awkward or that she didn't look so, either. He really needed the ocean air to clear his mind before whatever this new episode in his life officially started.

"Yeah," he said, hoping that he didn't sound too eager or whiney. "I kind of wanted to stop at the beach real quick. Just for a few minutes," he added quickly. "It's not too hot or crowded right now."

"Sure. Why not," Ginny shrugged. She covered her mouth as she yawned again.

"We can stop for some tea or coffee, if you want," Harry said eagerly.

She merely shrugged again, her eyes scanning the street. A bus and taxi met at the corner between Kings Cross Road and Craigend Street and waited as several Muggles crossed the intersection.

"Do you think you can Apparate?" Harry asked, unfolding the map they'd been given at Customs. "It's short, maybe a kilometer."

Ginny straightened from her ragged slouch and nodded grimly. "Yeah, I can handle that." She withdrew her wand but did not look happy as Harry held the map out for both of them.

"We can walk, if you want," said Harry reluctantly. It took much longer to walk than Apparate. Soon the sun would be burning everything it touched and people would be flocking to the beach to cool off.

"No," said Ginny, biting her lip. "It's not that . . . never mind. Where're we going?"

Harry frowned and peered at her face. Perhaps it hadn't been his imagination earlier; maybe Ginny really didn't like maps.

He pointed the tip of his wand at the eastern shore of Sydney where bold letters read _Bronte Beach_. "_Record_," he said firmly. A small, orange glow appeared at the business end. "Now you," he said to Ginny.

As Ginny followed his lead, Harry thought about how much more convenient and safer this form of Apparating was than merely memorizing coordinates across America. He also had no need to use this little charm to get to Bronte Beach, but for Ginny's benefit, he did it this morning.

"Ready?" he said, folding the map up and shoving it in his jeans' pocket.

Ginny nodded, and a second later, they both Disapparated and reappeared on the north side of Bronte Beach behind a large, craggy rock.

Harry smiled and inhaled deeply, tasting the salty air. Instead of stepping out from behind the rock and heading down to the white sand beach, he turned and started up the grassy, rock-spotted slope up the north cliff jutting out into the ocean. He heard Ginny scuffling behind him.

"It'll be worth it, come on," he said, looking over his shoulder. Although she seemed a little sluggish, she wasn't struggling on the hill.

Although Bondi Beach was Australia's most famous beach, Harry preferred its neighbor, Bronte. Smaller and less known to tourists, it was much less crowded with a cozier atmosphere.

As they neared the top and end of the cliff, Harry grinned as he felt the breeze pick up. He stopped when he reached his favorite spot between two leaning trees and parting shrubs that lent him a view of both the ocean and beach. Directly in front of him expanded the world of deep blue water and sky meeting where the sun shot silver across the edge. To his right, down below, and behind him rested Bronte—a world of scattered, early morning surfers and swimmers, backpacking travelers, and the awakening eastern suburb. Out of the deep green of the cliff's foliage rose an eclectic array of modern and Victorian architecture in which balconies were the only common feature.

_It's truly like being on the edge of the world_, Harry thought as his eyes soaked in the deep, sparkling blue. Already he could taste the salt on his lips. _Or . . . the beginning of it. _

"Wow," Ginny breathed behind him. She'd stepped up alongside and the ocean wind seemed to brush away some of her exhaustion. "This is beautiful!"

Harry grinned at her. "Welcome to Oz, Gin."

Glancing at him, she smiled faintly; then she closed her eyes and pressed her face into the wind. It rendered her loose hair knot undone and whipped her skirt around her legs, but she didn't seem to mind, and Harry couldn't bring himself to look away.

When she opened her eyes a moment later, he quickly faced the ocean again, hoping she hadn't noticed.

"C'mon, we better go. The flat's a few blocks from here," said Harry.

Ginny nodded and reluctantly turned to go back down the slope. Harry made a note to bring her back as soon as possible.

Walking west from the beach, Ginny and Harry passed an array of shops for Muggles and wizards alike (she was sure that only she and Harry could see the magical merchandise), as well as several pubs and cafes. Dead tired from traveling, she could barely register her new surroundings but noted that several surfboards were making their way down the boardwalks and streets toward the beach, and she couldn't help but notice that a fair few of the early-risers traversing the shops were Irish.

They passed a park. Ginny tried to memorize the street names (Bronte, Bondi, Oxford, Carrington, York . . .), but she finally gave up. She'd have time later. Instead she vaguely admired the assortment of housing from Romanesque to Victorian to "International" (as Harry referred to it). Beds and cots occupied balconies, and Ginny even saw one young man still sleeping, completely oblivious to the world starting around him.

"Here we are," Harry said finally, stopping at a wrought iron fence with a small gate.

Ginny gazed up at the gray stone, three-story structure that looked vaguely Roman. Pillars framed the front entrance, balconies opened every story, and vines were touching even the tiled roof. No set of fluttering curtains matched another set. Although trees blocked much of the north side of the large house, Ginny had a feeling that more stone turned west to create a wing.

"This is your _house_?" she said to Harry incredulously.

Harry looked slightly confused, but then his face cleared in understanding and he chuckled. "No. It's been converted into an apartment. We're right up there," he said, pointing to the corner facing toward Bronte Beach.

Ginny squinted at the oddly patterned curtains. Wasn't that style called to-die or something? She remembered something about Muggle hippies and then the 1980s . . . It was really too early to be thinking about Muggle Studies right now.

"Come on," said Harry, opening the gate. "Renee should be up by now. I hope."

As she stepped through the gate, something started to sink in. Too much bustling had gone on the past few hours to let her absorb anything, but now it started to hit her. She'd felt it standing on the cliff, feeling the salty promise of the ocean breeze, but could not concentrate on it.

She was in Australia. England was far behind her. No one knew she was here and no one knew who she was.

"Muggles live here too," said Harry, breaking into her thoughts, "so you have to be a bit careful. Sometimes it's best not to Apparate everywhere."

Then Harry took out a set of keys and used one on the front door. Ginny followed him inside and noted the considerably cooler air and slight hum of Muggle air conditioners. She looked around to find white walls, a faux hardwood floor, stairs with a polished banister leading up to the other floors, and a desk and couch in the small corridor leading to the back garden. Tilting her head up, she saw that the ceiling rose all the way to the top floor, and she could see numbered doors on the second floor through the open balcony.

Someone came out of number three, shaking his chin-length, sun-kissed hair out of his face and shoving his keys in his pockets. He glanced down and raised his eyebrows at her.

Ginny quickly looked down and then at Harry.

Harry had started up the steps, but paused when he noticed she wasn't right behind him. Feeling foolish for gawking, Ginny followed him.

The guy from number three came down the steps and greeted Harry. "Back from Pommy, then?"

"Yeah, just now," said Harry.

"You missed a bonzer rage the other night, mate," number three grinned, giving his keys a rattle. "Ask Nay about it. 'Course she was flat out like a lizard, so she might not remember." He laughed and turned his eyes on Ginny with what she considered a rather predatory smile. "Who's the Sheila?"

Before she had time to react, Harry grabbed her hand. "A mate from school. 'Later, Tommy." He started up the steps again.

"I'll lob in later, Potter!" Tommy called after them. Ginny heard him laugh again as he went out the door.

Despite being confused by the odd exchange, Ginny couldn't suppresse the thrill at Harry holding her hand. Then she quickly remembered that he _shouldn't_ be holding her hand. When they reached the top of the first flight, however, Harry let go.

"Sorry," he said quietly, not quite looking at her. "Tommy's a little . . . er, randy." His cheeks colored a bit but he sounded very serious. "Just don't get totally pissed around him, or accept drinks for that matter."

"I'll try to remember that," said Ginny, feeling a bit fuzzy. No matter how estranged she'd made herself from Harry, she could never squelch the warmth and annoyance that came from him being protective.

Feeling a bit impish, she tilted her head to the side. "He's kind of cute, though," she said thoughtfully.

"Ginny . . ." Harry gave her a painful look. "Please . . . just not Tommy. All right?"

The little mischief inside her puttered out. "Harry," she said quietly, "do you honestly think I could be with anyone bearing that name?"

Under his fringe, she could almost see his brow furrow, and his frown deepened. "Well, come on then," he sighed.

Silently she followed him up the next flight of stairs to the next floor. Harry stopped in front of number six. A sticker had been slapped haphazardly under it reading _Welcome to Nay's and Hay's_ in blue marker.

Harry turned the key and entered, calling, "Renee! I'm back!"

Again, Ginny slowly walked into new territory, her eyes roaming the apartment that had become Harry's home for the past two months. An open, somewhat cluttered kitchen rested to her right. The counters were topped with blue ceramic and had white sides; a plate of half-finished eggs and fruit sat atop the island surrounded by barstools. Arthur Weasley would have delighted at the Muggle fridge, toaster, microwave, and dishwasher.

Harry tossed his keys onto the counter and glanced at the scattered remains of a newspaper. He picked up the half-eaten, buttered toast and took a bite as he set his travel bag on the newspaper.

"Renee!" he called again. "Your breakfast is disappearing!"

Ginny snorted, shook her head, and looked to her right. Shoes, belts, and a cricket ball were scattered along the wall of sliding doors to what she assumed was a cupboard for such things.

"Here, give me your cloak," Harry said, kicking at the cricket ball and reaching for the cloak draped over Ginny's arm. He slid open the doors to reveal loose hangers, cloaks, a beaten surfboard, and two broomsticks, one of which was Harry's beloved Firebolt. He hung up her cloak, kicked in a couple shoes, and slid the doors shut again.

"We need to clean that out," he said sheepishly, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Don't want the Muggles asking about the brooms."

She merely raised her eyebrows, again feeling awkward and unsure of herself. She was no longer a traveler on her way somewhere afar but a guest and intruder on this new life Harry had made for himself.

"Well," said Harry, gesturing aimlessly, "I guess you can just set your bag on the counter. Renee's probably in the bathroom or something. I can show you the rest of the place, I guess."

Most of the flat Ginny could see from the open kitchen. It opened into a higher ceiling area with tall windows, sleek hardwood flooring, and the balcony that faced down the street toward the beach. The white walls of the kitchen became blue, but it did not darken the room as splash-paintings and posters covered much of the painted wall. At the center of the room, a lumpy, winged couch faced the corner with a large TV and stereo system. To Ginny's slight embarrassment, a lime green bra was draped over the back corner of the couch where the two wings met.

A small bed sat against the right wall, but it was so piled with pillows, shoes, blankets, and an Australian Quidditch League cloak that Ginny could barely discern that is was, in fact, a bed and not a shelf. Beside it was a small chest of drawers; leaning against the chest rested an electric blue guitar.

Ginny barely had time to register this before a loud, jubilant female voice broke through the quiet.

"Strewth! Harry! I thought I'd heard you come in!"

She turned to see a mass of dark, wavy hair and long, tanned arms ensnaring Harry in an enthusiastic hug. He laughed and hugged her back before pushing the young woman off. The woman giggled and kissed him on the cheek before giving his shoulder a push.

"Aren't you going to introduce me, you dag?"

Then she turned and Ginny got her first good look of Renee Blackstone.

Standing a few inches taller than Ginny, the Australian witch wore a black spaghetti top with red straps going around her neck from what she assumed was a bathing suit. Dark, wavy hair streaked from the sun fell loosely around slender shoulders and framed a wide smile and sparkling dark eyes. Although there was something gangly about Renee's long arms and legs, her flat torso, small waist, and curvy hips seemed to compensate for this. Her exposed navel was pierced and she wore faded cut-offs. Buoyant energy radiated off her, making her even more attractive than in the photograph Ron and George ogled.

This didn't exactly please Ginny.

"Sorry," Harry said, slightly pink in the cheeks. But he was smiling at bit at Renee, obviously glad to see her again. "Ginny, this is Renee, one of my first friends here."

"So _you're_ Ginny!" Renee exclaimed, her eyebrows up and her eyes shooting a sidelong look at Harry. Before Ginny could ask what exactly she meant by that, Renee seized her into a quick, friendly hug. "Most people call me Nay, by the way. We Aussies like to have as few syllables as possible."

Then she stood at arms length from Ginny and put her hands on her hips. "Aren't you hot in those clothes? Didn't Harry tell you that it's summer here?"

"I really don't have much for summer clothes," Ginny shrugged, pushing up again on her rolled sleeves. During her ordeal at the Portkey station, she'd changed into a button down blue shirt that Alyson had loaned her and rolled the sleeves up.

"Well, I can fix that," Renee said brightly. "You can borrow some of my clothes. Tiny little thing, aren't you? Don't worry, the only things that won't fit you, you don't need in the summer, anyway."

"Oh, you don't have to—"

Renee waved her hand dismissively and turned to Harry, holding up a hand, her index finger out. "Have you seen my limey cozzies? I can't find the bottoms."

Harry gave his eyes a roll. "Well, I _did_ take them with me to England, and bugger it all, I left'em there."

"You snarky mug." Renee snatched up the lime green bra (Ginny now realized it was a swimsuit piece) from the couch and whacked Harry again with it. "Now I've got to make sure not to leave any grundies around for you to be embarrassed about, eh?"

She sighed dramatically, flipped the bikini top over her shoulder, and put her hands on her hips and smiled at Ginny. "Men are so hard to keep in line. I've given up on training them. So, you both look stuffed. I made up the closet room for you, unless you and Harry are sharing his room?"

Blood instantly rushed to Ginny's face. She looked down at the floor, shaking her head, silently cursing Renee Blackstone.

Harry cleared his throat. "Er—no." She wouldn't dare look at him. "But she can have mine if she wants it. I can take the closet."

Still not looking at Harry, Ginny shook her head. "Don't be silly. I'm not taking your room." She had no idea what a closet room was, but it didn't sound too pleasant; yet she could not stand to let Harry be chivalrous much longer.

"Well, come on then," said Renee, laughter still keeping her mouth wide.

Ginny, her face still a bit warm, followed the girl down the small corridor that began between the kitchen and the living room.

"This—" Renee started to point at the slightly open door on the left, but there was an angry screech and yowl. A black cat shot out from the small opening and streaked into the kitchen; a split-second later the door burst open and a span of white feathers shot after the black streak.

"Hedwig!" Harry shouted, ducking and spinning around as the great owl, talons out, tried to snatch the cat out from under the barstools.

"—is Harry's room," Renee finished. She rolled her eyes. "Harry, get your owl away from Rum."

"How did he even get in there?" asked Harry as he opened a cupboard and grabbed a box of owl treats. "The door's always shut when Hedwig's there."

"He's a smart cat. I haven't been looking through your drawers, if that's what you're worried about," she said at the very moment she was peeking into the darkened room. "You don't have daring enough boxers to play with, anyway. Despite all my efforts," she whispered to Ginny.

_I don't want to know_, Ginny thought, hoping she wasn't cringing too badly.

"Hedwig!" Harry called, holding up a treat with his right hand and his left arm out invitingly. "I'll give you a treat if you leave the cat alone."

The owl dove one last time for the cat, then swooped up and landed gracefully on Harry's arm, clicking her beak affectionately. Harry gave his pet a stern but amused look. "You know, I shouldn't even give you this," he said. She promptly cuffed him with a wing. "All right," he laughed, giving her the treat.

When she finished her treat and disappeared into Harry's room, the black cat crawled out from under the barstool and trotted over to Renee. She scooped him up and he was soon purring.

"Rumplestiltskin here has a crush on Harry's bird," said Renee, scratching the small cat under his chin, "but Hedwig doesn't believe in interspecies dating."

The cat opened his eyes and braced his paws on Renee's shoulder to stare curiously at Ginny. She gasped. _He has purple eyes!_

Renee looked at her and laughed. "I know. He's a fair dinkum cat, though."

"Sorry?"

"Genuine," said Harry, coming up and brushing a feather out of his hair where Hedwig had cuffed him. "It's Aussie slang. You'll get used to it."

Rum meowed and crawled further up onto Renee's shoulder, stretching his neck out toward Ginny.

"He wants you," said Renee, handing the cat over. "Come on, I'll show you the rest."

Rum pushed his head under Ginny's chin and purred enthusiastically. She giggled as his whiskers tickled her neck and adjusted her hold on his small, silky body. Harry caught her eye and smiled.

"Maybe he'll leave Hedwig alone now," he murmured as Renee opened the bathroom door on the right and told her where the towels were kept.

Again, her cheeks warmed slightly. Was Harry _flirting_ with her? _No. He's just more comfortable being here than stuck with me somewhere. There's nothing wrong with being friendly_.

"My room's on the end," Renee said, pointing to the open door at the end of the corridor. Ginny could see the end of a bed with purple sheets, more scattered shoes and clothes, and could hear rock music coming from an unseen stereo. "Your room is here—" She opened the other door on Harry's side, reached in, and flicked on the light. "It's actually just a closet, but I expanded it a few feet to make a sort of guest room. I can't do much, since this _is_ a Muggle building, but it helps.

"I hope you're not claustrophobic," the Aussie added, stepping into the expanded closet.

Shaking her head, Ginny thought shamefully of the fear still active in her after being captive in the dark cold of Malfoy's cell.

Peering into the small room, Ginny tried to swallow the lump in her throat. A twin bed was pushed against the left wall, complete with a pillow, sheets, and light blanket; an old trunk sat at the end of the bed. The right side of the room seemed only a little wider than the bed and was lined with hooks for clothes. Spellotaped just above the hooks was a chord of purple Rope Light that Ginny thought served the purpose of breaking through the prison cell atmosphere, as did the surfing and koala posters on each wall.

"It's not much," Renee said apologetically. "I mostly use it for some of the backpackers that need a quick place to stay. Or when a mate's too off his face to walk home." She tucked a sun-lighted streak of hair behind her ear. "I would just roll this bed into my room and share, but I tend to keep odd hours and I'm a slob. And the bed in the big room gets too much traffic."

"No, this is fine," Ginny said quickly, hoping her discomfort didn't show.

"Just keep the door open if it feels too closed in. I also just changed the sheets." Renee stepped out of the closet and looked between Ginny and Harry. "You both look ready to cark it. Hungry? I know you snatched my toast, Harry."

"Actually, I'm just going to shower and have a nap," said Harry, running a hand through his hair and yawning a bit.

Renee nodded and turned to Ginny. "I'll get you a couple of things. It can get hot in there sometimes if I forget to charm it." She disappeared into her room and Rum wiggled out of Ginny's arms to follow, leaving her alone with Harry.

"Well," said Harry, shoving his hands into his pockets, "that's Renee."

"She's . . . nice," Ginny said honestly. "Energetic." As much as she didn't want to admit it, Renee reminded her quite a bit of Alyson, but just a bit less sophisticated and living with Harry.

"Yeah. You get used to it." Harry grinned a little. "She can be grumpy, too." Yawning again, he rubbed a corner of his right eye and peeked at Ginny again. "So," he said slowly, looking rather shy. "Do you like the place?"

Ginny looked back out at the open area. "It's really nice. How can you afford it, though?" As soon as she asked it, she felt a bit foolish: Harry had money, and her mother always said it was a bit rude to ask someone about his finances.

Harry shrugged. "The rates aren't as bad as London. And Renee actually pays most of it. She won't let you do a full half. She's got money."

"What does she do?"

"DJs for AWWN—er, Australia's Wizard Wireless Network." At Ginny's incredulous look, Harry added, "Nay's also got some share in an opal factory. I'll explain later. Or you can ask her."

"Here we are!" Renee sang, coming out of the bedroom with clothes draped in her arms and a fan floating before her. Ginny could just make out the tip of a wand pointing out from under a faded summer dress.

"You can sleep in this," she said, holding up the faded blue dress by its thin straps. "It's pretty old, but it'll do for around the house. You can look through this other stuff and see if there's anything you like. We can go to the markets or Salvos tomorrow, if you like." Then she dropped to her knees and plugged in the fan. "You can use magic or this to keep it from getting stuffy in here."

"Thank you," said Ginny.

"No worries, mate," Renee smiled, straightening up and brushing hair out of her eyes. "It's bonzer to finally meet one of Harry's old mates. Hopefully you're not as secretive as he is," she added, casting a teasing wink over Ginny's shoulder at Harry.

"Oh come off it," Harry muttered, "you _like_ people to be mysterious."

"Too right." Clapping her hands together, Renee stepped out of the room. "I'll let you two settle in. I've got to drop in on Sam and see if she's seen my limeys. I didn't want to wear red today . . ."

When the front door clicked shut, Harry looked back at Ginny questioningly. "Did you want the shower first?"

Now that Renee's energy had ceased to pummel her, Ginny could feel every exhausted bone in her body begging for the bed. "No, you go on," she said tiredly. "I can't stay up another minute."

"You'll be all right?" Harry cast the tiny 'bedroom' a dubious look.

"Sure. Why wouldn't I be?" Not even she could ignore the slight quaver in her voice.

"Nothing, it's just that I know I couldn't sleep in there." His mouth quirked sheepishly. "I don't like sleeping in cupboards."

"No, I suppose eleven years of it would do that to a person," Ginny said wryly. She appraised the closet again and tried to quell the anxiety creeping up her spine. This was nothing like Lucius Malfoy's icy cell. "I'll be fine, Harry. I'll leave the door open, if it makes you feel better," she added jokingly.

Harry snorted and seemed a little embarrassed. "I'll get your bag."

As he went back out to the kitchen, Ginny sagged against the threshold. Her heart pounded at the idea of living in this tiny hole in the wall. She hated to admit how much she was counting on the purple lights and open door to fight her claustrophobia. Not to mention that she very much valued privacy, and an open door would definitely inhibit this.

"Ginny?" Harry had returned. She could barely open her eyes to acknowledge him, but felt him brush by her to set the bag on the small pile of clothes. He paused outside the door. "I'll be right next door if you need anything."

She nodded and opened her eyes enough to watch him gently keep Rum from reentering his bedroom. When he disappeared into it, she sighed and completely entered her new 'room,' exhaustion fighting her every movement. After examining the blue summer dress for a minute, Ginny reluctantly closed the door and shed her travel clothes and quickly slipped into the dress. It was soft, thin, and free and came only to a few inches above her knees. Stretching luxuriously, Ginny took a minute to adjust to so much air touching her skin.

Then she opened the door a few inches so that some light and air would come into the room, turned on the fan, and shut off the light.

Trying hard not to think about the dungeon cell where her troubles had begun, Ginny crawled into bed and pulled the sheets tightly around her. Before she could recall her desperate fear, physical and mental exhaustion overtook her and she fell into a deep sleep.


	14. On the Rocks

Chapter Fourteen

"_On the Rocks"_

Harry dragged himself out of bed around noon; Hedwig remained napping under her wing. Despite only less than four hours of sleep, he felt invigorated after resting in his own bed again. Remembering that he was now living with two women, Harry pulled a t-shirt on before shuffling out of his room.

The hiss of the shower coming from the bathroom told him Renee was back from her morning swim. He smiled slightly at the comfort and welcome coming from his roommate's morning routine.

With the door to Ginny's room slightly open, Harry could hear the gentle hum of the fan running and could see that it was still dark within. Cautiously, he crept over to the door and peered through. She was sound asleep on her stomach, her face turned to the side, an arm dangling off the bed.

He watched her for a moment, thinking how weird it was to have her visiting _his_ place rather than the other way around with him at The Burrow.

Although he had a feeling he could stand for a long time watching and thinking, Harry's stomach rumbled incessantly. Not one to disobey nature's first call, he quietly went into the kitchen and started rummaging through the cupboards and fridge for something decent. By the time he had managed to throw together a cold pasta salad and find everything for a satisfactory sandwich, Renee emerged from her shower.

"Ooooh," she exclaimed as she wound her long, wet hair into a knot at the nape of her neck. "You're making lunch!"

"I'm hungry."

"What're you making?"

Harry jutted her with his elbow as she lent nosily over his lunch. "A sandwich. For _me_," he added pointedly as Renee's large, dark eyes alighted on his creation. "You can make your own cut lunch."

Renee pretended to pout, but then she spotted the bowl of pasta salad and snatched it up. He made for her wrist, but she slapped his hand away and grinned cheekily. Hopping onto the counter, her heels banging against the cupboard doors, she said sweetly, "I practically _starved_ without your wholesome cooking."

Rolling his eyes, Harry placed the last piece of lettuce on his roast beef and turkey sandwich, and said, "I doubt that. I saw those pizza boxes by the rubbish bin."

"Well—" She reached for a spoon leftover from breakfast and shoveled up some pasta. "—I hear pizza isn't healthy. So you put me at risk by abandoning me."

"That's gross! Don't eat out of the bowl." Harry grabbed the spoon and bowl and set them on the far side of the counter out of her reach. She started to pout again, but he promptly ignored her and took a bite out of his sandwich. "Make your own sanger," he said through a mouthful.

"And you say _I'm _gross," said Renee, smirking.

Harry swallowed. "Maybe if you learned to cook yourself, you wouldn't have to depend on whatever sorry soul you bring in to cook for you."

"I cook. I just don't cook as well as you do."

"Ugh," Harry grimaced, remembering his first meal there. "Good point." He'd volunteered to cook from then on. After all, he'd gotten plenty of practice with the Dursleys.

Renee grinned triumphantly, tucked a stray lock of dark auburn hair behind an ear, and then swiveled on the counter so she was facing the sandwich ingredients, folding her legs. "I made sure to get some grub at the store after Hedwig came back. The stuff in the fridge looked a little shonky."

Grinning a bit, Harry wordlessly handed over the container of roast beef slices, and then hopped up onto the counter beside his roommate. As she made her own sandwich, he absently contemplated flicking the back of her head, but then decided that the sandwich toppings would make a right mess on the floor if she kicked out. And then she'd scream and kill him.

He ate his sandwich in silence while Renee made hers. From his perch he couldn't see Ginny's door, but it didn't stop him from trying.

He was casting another surreptitious look down the corridor when Renee swung her legs back down and settled her plate on her lap. She shot Harry a sidelong look, a sly grin creeping across her left cheek.

"Well?"

"Well what?" Harry stared down at his plate and took a bite of his sandwich.

"You know what," she said in a low voice, ribbing him with her elbow.

"Shove off," Harry said irritably, giving her his own elbow.

Renee snorted. "Please, Harry. I'm not a dill."

"You're quite the stickybeak, aren't you?" Harry bit back a sigh and shoved more of the sandwich into his mouth, buying time. He supposed he really didn't have a good reason to be annoyed with Renee—after all, he'd just dropped her a note saying that he was bringing Ginny back with him. Not exactly the most considerate thing to do to your roommate.

"Is this one of those unmentionable thingies?" she whispered, with little mocking in her voice. Renee arched an eyebrow but looked less playful and more serious.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. What Renee knew about him was limited to mostly knowing that a Dark Arts war had broken out in the United Kingdom and that he had played a rather important role in it. The Australian newspapers had reported the war with interest, but since they were not actually in the middle of it, the effect was lost and, fortunately, so was much of Harry's "fame." As far as Renee was concerned, he had been in Auror training before he decided to take a sabbatical, and, yes, those few nightmares she'd been woken up by were just the expected trauma of living in a war zone.

Since Renee liked to have short-term roommates (to keep life interesting and provide for those who were not in need of leases or contracts), she easily accepted Harry's lack for sharing the past. However, she did always try to cheer him up if he got particularly melancholy or withdrawn, or lent an ear if he needed to talk.

Which Harry rarely wanted to do. Why trouble such a content person with his burdens since she definitely could never understand?

Still . . . he had to be fair, didn't he? And maybe she _could_ help him with this particular problem.

"Fine," he sighed. "What do you want to know?"

Renee's eyes widened, and she tried not to smile too widely. Harry almost laughed as she tucked her bottom lip under her teeth in an attempt to hide her pleasure. "Really?"

"Not if you don't hurry up and stay quiet," he muttered, looking anxiously toward the darkened bedrooms.

"No worries, mate." She patted his arm reassuringly. Her heels again lightly banged against the cupboard doors as she contemplated her line of questioning. "Right. Who is she? You told me she's a mate from school, but she must be more than that if you've brought her here."

Harry made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Um. Yes?" Heat crept up his neck, burning his fingertips. He picked at his sandwich instead.

"Yes she's a mate or yes she's more than that?"

"Don't you have to go to work or something?"

"At one. I've got thirty minutes. I'm Apparating," said Renee dismissively.

_Damnit_, Harry swore silently, wishing he hadn't agreed to the interrogation. "Brilliant." No longer hungry, he set his half-eaten sandwich down and gripped the edge of the counter with both bands. "Yes, she's a mate from school. No, we're not more than that."

"Reckon you're not stoked about that," she murmured sympathetically. "So, what happened?"

"What d'you mean?"

"She just looks like she's been run through." Renee shrugged; then she ducked her head and looked at him from behind the loose strands that had escaped her loose knot. "Like you," she said quietly.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, feeling his scar under the bottom of his palm. He winced inwardly. "Yeah, well . . . I don't know what's going on," he said helplessly, ignoring her last comment. "I think I know why, though. And no," Harry added pointedly, looking sharply at Renee, "I don't want to tell you."

Renee put her hands up in surrender. "Fine, fine! Don't get clucky with me!" Grinning wickedly, she shoved the last bit of sandwich into her mouth and said, "I think you two just need a good pash."

Then she hopped off the counter, leaving Harry to gape embarrassingly at her.

The last, comfortable vestiges of sleep lifted from Ginny, making her aware of the humming breeze flowing over her skin and causing her hair to tickle her back and arms. Moaning softly, she became aware of the comfortable but unknown bed and the claustrophobic confines of the dark room. Her brain lagged behind her pounding heart, and for a brief moment, she felt panic welling in her chest.

_No, I'm in Australia, not Malfoy Manor. I'm just stuck in a cupboard in Harry's flat._

Shuddering at this, Ginny rolled onto her back, her left arm smacking against the wall. It flopped back onto her stomach as she opened her eyes. A beam of gray light sliced across the ceiling, and she stared at it, trying to reorient herself.

The new sights and smells flashed through her mind: the morning grogginess of Kings Cross, the glory of the Pacific Ocean, the white sand sifting into her shoes, the eclectic energy of Bronte and Bondi Junction, Harry's obvious easiness here, and Renee's buoyant welcome. All of these played across the beam and in her mind; she lay still to absorb them all again before stretching and allowing the present to affect her.

She had no idea what time or day it was, but she felt that she couldn't have slept an entire day. The acute stiffness in her limbs could have been worse, and she felt rejuvenated from a nap rather than weakened after a long sleep.

Oh, but she did feel grimy!

Pushing a hand into her hair, Ginny scowled at the snarls. The fan on her skin had kept it fairly dry, but she still felt in definite need of a bath, and her hair felt oily at the roots.

Getting out of bed, she flicked on the light and then peeked cautiously out.

Sounds of rummaging came from the living room, but she couldn't see whether it was Renee or Harry. Quietly, Ginny shut the door and turned to survey the pile of clothes on the trunk and her travel bag. She'd spent a little more than she'd wanted on the Poppins Travel Kit, but she'd reckoned it was better than magically expanding and resizing her own rucksack and hoping nothing got lost or damaged in the transfiguration. Money spent now was money saved later, right?

She set out her fresh undergarments and toiletries but returned to Renee's loaners to find something suitable for the heat she remembered from the walk through Bronte. Holding up a worn white t-shirt with _The Ramones_ printed across it in black letters, Ginny frowned in confusion. Nearly every t-shirt had apparently shrunken to child size.

"I'm not _this_ small," she grumbled, brandishing a bright yellow top. Feeling rather resentful, she tossed it down with _The Ramones_.

She finally decided on a pair of grey drawstring shorts and a faded green t-shirt that asked, "_Have you seen my bunyip?"_ She had no idea what a bunyip was and hoped fervently that it wasn't a crude innuendo of some sort.

Gathering up her goods, she peeked once again out at the kitchen and corridor—and nearly slammed the door.

Harry had his Firebolt out on the island counter. Whether he was inspecting and repairing it or reacquainting himself, she didn't know, but she did know, however, that she didn't want to be caught in such a disheveled state.

Of course, before she could shut the door unobtrusively, he looked up and spotted her.

"Hey," he said, looking mildly surprised to see her.

_Damn it all!_ It seemed a bit rude to ignore him, so she muttered a hello before skittering across the few feet to the bathroom. Once safely locked inside, she smacked her forehead and shot her reflection in the mirror a dirty look.

It wasn't as if Harry hadn't seen her looking worse before. He'd seen her nearly frozen, tortured, and hysterical as she'd stumbled blindly into Ron's arms, not a bit of sanity or dignity left in her—not to mention the time she was an inch from death on the Chamber of Secrets' floor. Why should she be embarrassed now?

_I doubt he would care how nice you looked if he knew what you did_, a cynical voice wheedled inside her head. _What use are good looks when you're a weak little traitor?_

"Shut up," she whispered harshly, throwing her clothes down on the floor. Not wanting to traipse around the apartment looking like a tramp had nothing to do with her weaknesses.

Instead, she fastened on that feeling of salty ocean air kissing her face and ran her bath water.

Twenty minutes later, she emerged from the bath feeling revived and clean. Unsure what to do with her things, she rolled her shampoo and soap containers inside her laundry and tucked it under arm. Again, she peeked cautiously out, feeling a little foolish and shy. Everything seemed quiet, so she crept out toward the kitchen and living room.

Sitting on a barstool and rubbing the back of his neck, Harry was bent over a small notepad and chewing musingly on the end of a pen. He looked up when she tentatively entered, and she pulled self-consciously on the hem of the borrowed shirt that didn't quite reach the low waist of the shorts, which exposed a couple inches of pale, freckled skin.

"Have a good nap?" Harry said after a slight pause. If Ginny didn't know better, she might have thought he was trying not to laugh behind the slight awkwardness in his voice.

"Yeah," she said, trying hard not to squirm. Now that she wasn't so travel-lagged, she was a bit more aware of the situation. "Um, what should I do with these?" she asked, motioning to the bundle under her right arm.

"Just toss them in the hamper in the bathroom. I'll do laundry tomorrow. Renee's been stockpiling for me," he added wryly.

"You toss your stuff in with hers?" Ginny asked incredulously.

"Well, yeah. What's wrong with that?"

"Oh, nothing," said Ginny. "I'm surprised, is all. I recall you having a problem with my knickers in Denver."

Harry promptly dropped his pen and stumbled off the barstool after it.

Had her hands not been preoccupied with her laundry, she would have clapped a hand over her mouth.

She was distracted from her bewilderment as Harry muttered something under his breath and reseated himself on the barstool, quite certainly not looking at her. "Come again?" she asked, still reeling from her bold tease.

"I said," Harry cleared his throat, "that's different."

The desire to tease him more welled up inside her, battling against her longstanding restraint. She bit her lip, wanting to scream in frustration. The urge to be her old self was growing stronger, but she couldn't let it; if she got too close to Harry, let _those_ feelings override everything else . . . she could very well imagine the pain that would come from losing it all if the truth came out.

"Right," she said. "I'll just drop these off, then."

Back in the bathroom, she deposited her dirty clothes on top of Harry's smelly travel clothes and Renee's undergarments. She paused, staring at the silky material. How could naïve, innocent Harry handle living with a woman when he used to squirm at Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown's conversations? What sort of relationship did he have with Renee Blackstone to live with her—and did he _really_ feel nothing about handling her knickers?

"Oh, bloody hell. It's none of my business. He can bloody _snuggle_ her knickers and I shouldn't give a damn!" She slammed the hamper lid down and pressed her lips thinly together.

Looking sternly in the mirror, she forced down the unsettling feelings and thoughts. _I need to let things be. I have to relax and just take everything as it comes._ _Think about that cliff; that was amazing._

Feeling less sulky, she returned to the kitchen (after dropping her bath bottles on her bed) to find Harry still mulling over the scribbles on the notepad. When he saw her, he turned slightly pink; she fidgeted with the hem of her shirt again as his green eyes flicked over her.

"What's a bunyip?" she asked as she saw his mouth twitch again. He definitely seemed amused whenever he looked at the shirt.

"You'll have to ask Renee, really," he said, raising an eyebrow and definitely trying to hold back a grin. "It's some mythical outback creature that Luna should be searching for."

Ginny grinned at that. "I'll ask Renee where she got it and send Luna one."

"She'd like that, I bet," said Harry. He shoved the notepad into a drawer. "Are you hungry?" he asked.

"A little," she shrugged, wondering what he'd been doing with the notepad. "What time is it?"

"A quarter past four. What are you hungry for?" Harry pointed his wand at the fridge, then swept it across the cupboards; the doors swung open obligingly. "There's a bit of the cut lunch left, but I can cook something or pop down to the grocer or—what?" He looked at her curiously, since Ginny had started giggling.

"Sorry," she said, trying hard not to smile as his bemused face. "It's just that I've never seen you domestic."

"Well, a person's got to eat, doesn't he?" said Harry indignantly, straightening his shoulders.

"Oh, I'm not taking the mickey on you," Ginny said, rolling her eyes. "It's just . . . funny, that's all."

"That clears things up so well," he said dryly. He gestured with his left hand at the cupboards and fridge. "You might just want a snack, because we—you, me, Renee—are going down to The Rocks tonight. If you're up to it, that is."

"What's The Rocks?"

A grin flashed across his face at this. "It's great. You'll love it. It's the oldest part of Sydney. Rather touristy and crowded on the weekends, but there's some stuff down there—for wizards and Muggles."

Her curiosity piqued and eager to see more of the city, she asked, "When are we going?"

"Around six or so. Renee gets off at five. So," said Harry, turning to the food, "what're you hungry for?"

After a few minutes of deliberation, Ginny settled on some strawberries and the remains of the pasta salad Harry had thrown together earlier. As she munched, she asked Harry questions about the city. He hardly needed any prodding to launch into enthusiastic details about the racy red-light district of Kings Cross and Darlinghurst (where you could barely distinguish between wizard and Muggle), going with Renee to music venues down at The Rocks, Wharf, and Circular Quay, catching off-season Quidditch matches in Moore Park, and also joining one of the local pub teams.

By the time five o'clock rolled around, Ginny felt invigorated by Harry's enthusiasm and caught some of it herself. Harry was telling her about "shrimp on the Barbie" when Renee came through the door.

"G'day!" she called, laughing as a black streak came through the patio door and skidded across the kitchen. "Rum! C'mere, you Bushie terror!"

Scooping the cat up, she kicked off her thongs and settled Rum on the island, her eyes bouncing from Ginny to Harry. "So, are we going out, then?" asked Renee. Rum arched rapturously under her fingers, purring loudly.

"Yeah, I think so," said Harry, glancing at Ginny questioningly.

Ginny smiled, completely enamored by Harry's long chatter about Sydney. "Definitely."

"Strewth," said Renee, slapping the counter with her palm. Rum jumped slightly, shot his mistress a reproachful look, and then sidled over to Ginny to lick her hand.

She giggled at his rough, neat little tongue and scratched him behind his ears. "How old is he?" she asked curiously. "He looks like a kitten."

"He's over a year," Renee shrugged, batting at Rum's flicking tail. "He's a runt. That's why I like him." She cooed at her cat and he swiveled around to butt his head against her hands. After a moment of this, Rum moved past the girls' affectionate administrations to give Harry a pointed look.

"Oh, I'm so very sorry," said Harry wryly as the cat yowled demandingly at him. Smirking, he scratched Rum under the chin. Once Rum was satisfied that everyone had given him the proper amount of love, he jumped off the counter and trotted back out to the balcony to watch the birds on a power line.

"All right," said Renee brightly. "Let's all change and go down to The Rocks! We might have a chance to catch Bohem Tragedy for a set. I needed a review on them last week."

"So why didn't you catch them last week?" asked Harry.

"Alex was in with his band in Bundy," said Renee offhandedly, although Ginny caught a certain amount of girlish glee in those dark eyes. "I couldn't say no."

"Uh-huh," Harry said slowly, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind what he meant by that. It rather reminded Ginny of the "uh-huh" he'd used on Ron when her brother was battling in denial over his feelings for Hermione.

"_Anyway_—" Renee turned to Ginny, "—we've got to get ready!" Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed Ginny by the wrist and dragged her into the farthest bedroom, yelling over her shoulder that Harry should make an effort with his hair.

"That's a lost cause," Ginny told her in a low voice as Renee started tossing things at her.

"I know," Renee grinned over her shoulder, "but it's just so fun to mummy him."

"This place is wonderful," Ginny declared a few hours later as she, Harry, and Renee stepped out of The Walkabout. She felt rather lightheaded from the live music, chatter, and cold daiquiris she'd been treated to while Renee scribbled down a band review and caught a couple of words with Bohem Tragedy (Ginny rather thought the lead singer's hair was a tragedy).

The Rocks on a Friday night seemed to be pure energy and eccentricity. A market throbbed through the winding little streets of cafes, shops, and cobblestones. Sydneysiders and tourists alike intermixed, enjoying the warm evening and gentle breeze coming off the harbor. The water sparkled from the glow of the towering, lighted skyscrapers of City Centre, boats passed under the arching bridge and blew their horns, and quiet, romantic couples found seclusion among the livelier outlets.

"I knew you'd love it," said Renee. Tonight she wore a tangerine halter-top with a short white skirt and chunky sandals. Her hair had been let loose into waves again and her lips and eyes were touched with gloss. Many a male (and some female) had noticed how she fed off the energy, and Ginny felt a bit more self-conscious beside the flamboyant older woman.

Renee had loaned her another little blue dress. This one, however, was not faded and seemed fairly new, and also was made of a silk-polyester hybrid that felt wonderful against her skin but made her a little too aware of how close it was against her skin. Along with the dress, Renee had also insisted she wear some low-heel sandals that could be charmed to any shade she desired. After much deliberation (Renee would not accept simple black or white), the Aussie decided on nude, and so Ginny caught herself looking at her feet and thinking she'd lost her shoes.

Her hair was held partially back in a clip; the rest of it fell free around her face and down her back. Renee had made Ginny promise to let her "play with it" sometime soon. Now, Ginny self-consciously finger a free lock, wondering apprehensively what the other woman would do to it.

As she did so, she caught Harry looking at her, and she felt a warmth creep up her neck. He'd been looking at her quite a bit tonight—much like how the passing males had been gazing at Renee. A warning voice in her head told her she should stop that now, but The Rocks had overwhelmed her sensibility and she felt light and eager for whatever these streets would throw at her.

"Oh, yes," Renee said, slinging an arm around Harry's shoulders and grinning madly at him. "Harry and I have fond memories of this place, don't we, Harry?"

"Nay," Harry said warningly, a steadying hand on her waist.

"Oooh, you don't like this story, do you?" teased Renee, pulling lightly on his ear.

"You embellish it," Harry muttered, looking down at the cobblestone.

"How would you know? You can hardly remember it, you had the wobbly boot that night!" Seemingly unaware that Harry was sending her a very dark look indeed, Renee waggled her eyebrows at Ginny while slapping Harry playfully on the chest. "This bloke here thought himself a right ol' Bushie and got himself a gutful of piss. Mind you, he can't hold much. Wish I hadn't had so much myself, so I could recollect better what a wonderful snog he was—"

"All right, let's go to Cadman's," Harry said loudly, giving Renee a push toward the street and away from The Walkabout's door.

"Aw, Hay," said Renee amusedly, "I think I remember you were a ripper, up until the part you passed out."

"I didn't pass out," Harry said defensively, sounding rather grumpy. "I fell asleep."

"A sleepy drunk. You'd be cute if you weren't so pathetic," Renee teased, dropping her arm off his shoulders to pinch his arm.

"Cut it out," Harry growled.

Through this exchange, Ginny tried to hard not to acknowledge the sickening punch in her gut. She couldn't help but steal glances at Harry, but he seemed to be determinedly keep his face away from her and the narrow streets didn't give her enough light to judge his profile. However, his shoulders had stiffened and he seemed very annoyed by Renee reminiscing.

_It's not my business if they snog, _she told herself stubbornly. _Harry and I are barely friends anymore, so he can snog whomever he bloody wants_.

"Ah, you're such a dag, Hay," Renee said affectionately, patting Harry's shoulder and turning to Ginny. "You see, Ginny, I generally make it a rule not to get involved with roommates. If I put up with a bloke, I generally pretend that I prefer a Sheila for a bit, to put them off and not try anything with the Old Fella. That was especially enjoyable with Harry here. He's so _innocent_ when it comes to things like that."

Ginny blinked. After seeing the photo in Harry's letter, she'd completely forgotten that Harry had implied that Renee was bit unconventional.

"Anyway, no drama with him," continued Renee, as if Ginny wasn't trying to not to gape obviously at her. "Oooh!" she suddenly exclaimed, dodging a middle-aged tourist couple consulting a guide and walking at the same time. "Icy poles!"

In seconds she returned bearing three popsicles and handed them each one. "This night is on me, you just remember," she said before giving her red dessert an eager lick. "You said you wanted to go to Cadman's, Harry?"

"Yeah," said Harry, still sounding a bit disconcerted and subdued. "Ginny hasn't seen the, er, non-Muggle part yet."

Renee led them through the little winding streets, stopping every now and then to peek at something on a cart or under an awning. As they walked, Ginny and Harry bumped into each other every now and then, each time strikingly reminding Ginny of a time when they hadn't felt self-conscious or awkward. Although she sensed a gloomy cloud at the back of her mind at this, it was pushed away by the sights and smells around her, and she found herself wanting Harry to feel the same way.

"I wondered why you hardly touched anything when we were in the pub," said Ginny after her arm brushed against Harry's again.

"Er—yeah," said Harry, sounding thoroughly embarrassed. "I never want to be that pissed again." He rubbed his forehead and winched. "The morning after is hell."

Ginny started to laugh—then she stumbled on a missing cobblestone. Harry caught her by the elbow.

"Steady on. How many did you have back there, anyway?" he asked.

Ginny slipped her toes back under the sandal thong and brushed off Harry's bracing hands. "Not that many. I tripped on the street. I'm not drunk," she added as an amused grin crept up the right side of Harry's mouth.

"I didn't say anything," he said innocently.

"No, but you looked like you were going to."

"Maybe you've just got a guilty conscience."

Shooting Harry a dirty look at that, Ginny walked a little faster, but Harry quickly matched her pace, a dopey little grin on his face. She felt her own mouth quivering and nearly broke into a jog to catch up to Renee. However, this proved awkward in sandals, and so she slowed down enough to walk with some dignity. Harry chuckled quietly at this.

Renee was waiting for them in an open area just in front of a small hill and wall. An old, empty-looking, yellowish stone building snuggled up to the mound and barrier. Through the milling people, Ginny could see a small sign reading _Cadman's Cottage_. Tourists were giving it curious but disappointed looks as they paused to read the sign and consult their guides; the regulars to The Rocks paid it no heed.

"This is one of the oldest buildings in Sydney," said Renee, gesturing at the cottage. "It's a nice little tourist landmark, but there's no tour tonight." She smiled. "That just makes it easier for us."

As she led them closer to the cottage and then around behind it, Renee said quietly, "You can practically wander into the wizarding part of The Rocks if you know where you're going, but this way is fun too."

In the darkness behind the cottage, Ginny could barely make anything out. However, Renee confidently moved into the darkest corner. Then, quite suddenly, like a bat launching itself out of its cage, a door swung open and a figure strode out of a rectangle of flickering light.

"Oh, pardon," said the wizard, stepping aside for them.

"No worries," Renee said cheerfully. "Come on," she said to Ginny and Harry, holding the door open, "before a Muggle sees us."

With Harry right behind her, Ginny followed Renee into the dim, flickering torchlight and found herself in a sort of corridor of stone and earth. It wasn't very wide and they had to squeeze past a Muggle-dressed witch and wizard (their wands were out and they were glaring fiercely at one another) a few feet inside the door. Despite the earthy atmosphere, cool, fresh air streamed around them. They turned a corner and suddenly the narrow expanse opened into a brightly lit room full of noise and the smell of pipe and drink.

"This is The Hobbit Hole," explained Renee as they made their way down stairs cut out of the wall to the main floor. "I've never really read about hobbits, but apparently they're these little people that live in homes under hills, and so . . ." She gestured at the lively patrons, some several hours past being coherent.

"C'mon," said Harry, nodding toward another set of stairs where a constant stream of people was coming and going.

They emerged from The Hobbit Hole to find a very similar part of The Rocks as before, except that this was obviously not Muggle. Wizards and witches, many dressed in Muggle summer wear like the arguing couple in the Cadman tunnel, were laughing and calling to one another; owls swooped down to find purchase on ledges before launching off again; under a drooping awning, several young Hogwarts-age teenagers were playing Exploding Snap; to their left, and whimpering plaintively, a foolish-looking wizard was hopping in circles on his hands, his trousers legs falling down to his knees to reveal striped socks while his friends laughed and pointed.

Ginny smiled, feeling something akin to utter joy swell in her chest. The past couple of days had been rather surreal, passing through Muggle and wizarding worlds in a disconnected sort of way. Then just this morning she'd found an enchanted, suspended world in Muggle Bronte and The Rocks. Now she found something comforting and exciting in arriving to a brand new magical place; it was a life she'd known thrown into a fresh perspective.

Lightly touching her hand, Harry titled his head down and said softly, "I know."

She turned and looked at him. Harry wasn't exactly smiling, but he wore an understanding, serene sort of expression as his eyes gazed at her before sweeping over the serpentine streets of magical displays and enjoyment. The wizarding world of England had taken its toll on Harry, and although it was home to him, he needed to get away from it for a while, but the Muggle world had never been for him, and so finding a magical place with enough untouched—untainted—familiarity soothed him. She understood this completely, because, at this moment, she felt it too.

"Want to go to The Pitch?" Harry asked Renee.

"At this hour?" she snorted. "It'll be as busy as a cat burying—"

"Okay, then where would you like to go?"

"Oh, let's just sweep through and wander. Let Ginny tell us when to stop."

Ginny was quite content to just float along, listening to Harry and Renee banter back and forth or trade hellos with people they knew. She noted some closed shops she might want to look at another time, and, as they passed The Pitch (a raucous game pub filled with Oliver Woods), some places she didn't. A peddler tried to sell her some gorgeous but unnecessary fashion scarves that could also "be altered to discomfort an enemy." Renee bought them a round of sparkling, clear purple drinks that tickled Ginny's stomach and made her feel as if she'd just jumped through a cool spring. Her host also tossed a few wizard coins into the hat of a three-piece band on the corner of Sickle & Moore, a novelty shop for visiting magical folk.

Just as she was about to ask Harry and Renee if they could stop by the candy apple shop, she saw something out of the corner of her eye that made her heart jolt. Spinning around and nearly twisting her ankle on the uneven street, she peered into a shadowy bend in the side street to her left. In the flickering torchlight and milling crowd, she could barely make out a figure disappearing into the deeper shadows and then vanish behind the buildings.

"No," she whispered under her breath, a hand at her heart. It couldn't be . . . A trick of the light, her underlying nerves playing with her imagination . . . But why did she have to see him now? What could he possibly be doing in Australia, anyway? _Not every white-blonde wizard is Draco Malfoy, and that one didn't even look like him, really_.

"Ginny?" Harry called, turning and noticing her hesitance. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, blinking and giving her head a shake. She smiled and pushed out of her mind any thoughts that Draco Malfoy could possibly conjure up. "I just thought I saw someone I knew, that's all. Trick of the light."

Harry frowned and looked ready to ask her who, but Renee interrupted by begging them to go into _Merlin's Trick_, a building completely dedicated to magical games.

"I'm off to bed," Renee whispered to Harry as she returned the water pitcher to the fridge. "Don't stay up too late," she added, nodding toward the balcony and giving him a meaningful look.

Harry glanced out toward the balcony as Renee padded toward her room, shutting off the main kitchen light as she went so only the night lamp glowed across the counters.

Perched on the wide railing of the balcony, her hands clasping the edge, ankles locked around the vertical poles, Ginny had her head tilted up toward the sky. She'd been out there ever since they'd returned from The Rocks, just gazing out at Bronte. Harry could sense an introspective moment and had kept away, not wanting to disturb her, but he'd been restless and had not been unable to really do anything except send Hedwig out for her hunt. Renee had noticed and nudged him every now and then before retiring just now.

Sighing, Harry made his way out to the balcony. He hesitated at the sliding door, then took his chance and stepped, bare-footed, onto the still warm stone.

She didn't acknowledge him, but he didn't get the impression that she was ignoring him. Stepping up to the rail, he rested his elbows on it and looked out over the glowing lights and dark shapes of Bronte. The night wind cooled his face and he could see the silvery flicker of the distant waves under the moonlight. Following the glow of the night's horizon, he gazed up at the now-familiar sky hovering above the faint orange glow of electricity. Not a cloud marred the velvet, diamond-studded sky. It was the perfect night.

Beside him, Ginny inhaled deeply, and he gazed up at her from the corner of his eye. Her eyes were open and flickering under the moonlight as they swept over the spread of civilization and vast ocean before her. Pale but iridescent under the moonlight, she seemed to be soaking in the night like a starved, mythical creature. He suddenly envisioned her letting go of the railing to fling herself into the sky as he'd just seen Hedwig do.

"Don't you love this?" she said breathlessly, as if not wanting to disturb the dance of city lights and starlight or be heard over the roar of the ocean.

"It is nice," said Harry, inadequate at describing how nights such as this made him feel.

"I love it," Ginny went on, her voice filled with something like wistful wonderment. "It's just so good to be somewhere where it's just you, where it's untouched by your life. You still carry everything you've done, everything that's happened to you, but it doesn't know it—you haven't marred it . . ."

She trailed off, sounding sad. Harry couldn't quite look at her as she closed her eyes and dropped her chin a bit. The ocean breeze toyed with her hair, brushing it across her eyes, cheeks, and neck. He felt a tightening in his chest as he looked away, gazing unseeingly into the garden below. Questions burned inside him; questions that had been unanswered for two years since she'd gazed at him with dead eyes in the infirmary bed.

"Ginny," he said quietly after several minutes had passed. He swallowed before pressing on, feeling just as he had on that horrible day. "What happened to you?"

Pain flitted across her face and her closed eyes tightened. "Don't, Harry," she whispered firmly. "Please, just let me savor this."

Surprising frustration shot through him, and he bit down on his tongue. Trying hard not to show this, he stood up and turned but did not leave. Instead, he leaned the small of his back against the rail and crossed his arms.

"Okay," he said quietly. He'd been closed off from her so long that it was almost habitual—not that it hurt any less. Not wanting to dwell on this (but it was forefront in his mind), he said, "Did you have a good time tonight?"

Ginny opened her eyes and smiled, relief sliding down her bare, freckled shoulders as she turned to him. "Oh, yes. I can't wait to see more."

"So you're glad you came, then?" said Harry, his eyes following her small, eager smile. He'd been trying hard not to look at her lips the past couple of days, but they'd always been right there, dark and untouchable. She hadn't applied any of her make-up today, her lips just as he'd remembered.

"Yes, I am now," she said, her smile fading a bit. She licked her lips and shifted slightly on the railing. "I wasn't so sure at first, but now I think it might have been the first sensible thing I've done in a long time."

Again, pain tightened across her face, but she seemed to hold it in check. Harry thought he should say something, but he knew he wasn't good at saying the right thing, and he couldn't concentrate on hardly anything but how her mouth moved.

"I'm glad," he said quietly, managing to find something decent to say. "How long do you think you'll stay?" he added, wanting very much to know the answer. She was here, talking to him and maybe, somehow, he could absolve at least one thing that had been hurt by him.

"I . . . don't know," said Ginny, looking troubled. "I guess it depends on how long you'll let me."

"As long as you like," said Harry, feeling that odd intensity in him he'd always kept dormant except on that fateful night when he'd lost control of it. Once again his eyes fastened on her mouth and his arms fell slack, his left dropping to his side while his right found the railing. His fingertips brushed against the side of her hand as he took a tiny step toward her.

Ginny's eyes widened, her lips parted slightly; his heart pounded . . .

"We agreed we were only friends," she said harshly, lifting her hand off the railing.

Harry, stunned out of the urge that had consumed him, looked up at her darkly. "We've hardly been friends for two years, Ginny."

Her jaw tightened and she gripped the rail hard. Right then he wanted to burst out exactly what he should have said in the hospital wing, exactly what he wanted to say now, and damn the pain that came with it!

He opened his mouth to tell her that he'd lied about his feelings because he'd wanted to protect her, and he knew she hated that, but he was stupid at the time and learned his lesson, and that he was going to tell her that day in the hospital wing but she wouldn't let him, and, well, he should have just plowed on through, even after she told him she didn't return the feelings, and that he was rather sure he still had those feelings and had an inkling that there was a name for them—

But then he shut his mouth. What was the point, really? She must know, because she'd just reminded him that they were "just friends," and had probably known what he'd been very tempted to do just now and, while he was thinking about it, didn't obeying her orders two years ago just hint a little bit to how he felt? Clearly, she didn't want share it.

"Good night, then," he said coolly.

She flinched but did not look at him. Trying to ignore the pain and bitterness burning through him, Harry left without another word.

Some Aussie Vocab:

cut lunch – sandwiches

sanger- sandwich

shonky – dodgy, underhanded, etc

dill – idiot, not the full quid, etc

stickybeak – nosy, Hermione

stoked – happy, thrilled, ecstatic

clucky – cranky, maternal

pash – long, passionate kiss

had the wobbly boot/gutful of piss – drunk

The Walkabout – a walk in the Outback for an infinite amount of time

ripper – something great, fantastic

dag – nerd, goof

Old Fella – er, I bet you can figure this out ;-)


	15. Innuendos and Howlers

A/N: Happy Holidays, everyone! Ok, I'm going to answer a couple of questions I've been getting. 1) No, I don't live in Australia. Yes, I've been there. I spent two weeks in Queensland a couple of summers ago. I'm mostly going on memory, my journal, and some help from the Sydney guide to jog said memories and clear up some confusion on my part. 2) Also, the abrupt scene changes that occur are a formatting problem with I have breaks in between scenes with nice little symbols, but for some reason, just doesn't like them. I've tried different ways, but it doesn't work. If anyone knows a good trick, let me know! 

Chapter 15

"_Innuendos and Howlers"_

Something small, dry, and warm scratched persistently at her nose. Rumbling purrs joined the pawing at her face, steadily become more demanding. She twitched and there was a quiet 'meow' before a furry head promptly butted her.

Sighing and slowly opening her eyes, Ginny reached out to pet Rum, a sneeze from his fur tickling her nose. Although she washed her face every morning, she generally liked to do it herself, but not with cat saliva, thank you very much.

Even as she whispered this to the small, content feline rubbing against her chest and kneading the mattress in pleasure, she felt rather grateful to wake up to Rum's begging. After the dream she'd had last night, she was sure she would have woken to panic in the small room. Her head ached at the memory of Voldemort's deadly, spider-like hands snatching her private memories and cruelly mocking her as Lucius Malfoy laughed, holding her weakened body in a vice.

Shuddering, Ginny picked up Rum and cuddled him close to her, burying her face in his short, silky coat. He purred loudly, pushing his head under her chin, claws digging happily into the cotton of her pajamas. After a moment, she released him into her lap and pressed her back against the wall, allowing her head to fall back.

If she closed her eyes, she would feel the closed space of the bedroom, but if she kept them open, she had the assurance of the light beam coming through the cracked door. Although the fan was not running, the air did not feel stuffy. Renee had apparently re-Charmed it before retiring last night.

Last night . . . Ginny bit her lip and rubbed her still aching forehead at the memory. Her other hand found Rum, who had curled into her lap, his tail twitching against her thigh. She felt so stupid and . . . scared.

Looking back, she was just as sure now as she was then that Harry had been about to kiss her. She'd seen that look in his eyes before, that slackening in his jaw . . . It hurt. In all her pondering and worrying since Christmas Eve, she had not considered Harry showing any feelings like that. She'd known from his face and actions that he still cared about her, but she had figured that the past two years had quelled any amorous feelings he might have had, and that after letting her tagalong for a while with him that anything possibly remaining would be completely, utter squashed. If she pushed him away any farther, he'd be volunteering to jump off the relationship cliff, right?

At least, she'd thought so, until last night. The dress had been a mistake. Had joking around with him been one, too? Could she really not be somewhat friends with him? She hadn't been able to at Hogwarts after . . . after she'd come back, so why had she entertained the idea last night?

"It could have been the alcohol," she whispered to Rum. The cat rolled onto his back, inviting her to scratch his belly. She did so absently, still puzzling. "Mum's always said that makes you do and think things you don't want to—and you actually want to—Oh hell."

Groaning under her breath, she pushed both hands against her face, holding back a growl of frustration. Maybe she should pack her bags and go . . . somewhere else.

Then, as Rum stopped purring, she heard two voices coming from somewhere near the kitchen or living room. Briefly, she recalled the muffled sound of Harry moving around his bedroom last night and the protest of bedsprings suspiciously close to her wall. It had taken her a long time to fall asleep last night, wondering—on top of everything else—if Harry was indeed just a few inches of partition away from her, and oh, didn't this just make everything even more befuddling and painful?

Now, however, Harry wasn't in his room but out somewhere in the apartment talking with Renee. Ginny, having spent years eavesdropping on her siblings, couldn't ignore the compulsion to do so now.

"We should go, you know," Renee was saying, "and introduce Ginny to the rest of the mob. I know you're not much for parties, but most of the Wombats will be there. I'm sure Hugo will stop calling you Shark Biscuit by now. And, anyway, I already told Shelly yes, so it'd be rude not to rock up."

Harry's reply was muffled, but Ginny had a sneaking suspicion that he'd been purposely incoherent.

"It's that or go to the other one with Tommy and his mob," said Renee, a crafty hint in her voice. "He asked me about her yesterday when I came back from the beach."

"Fine, we'll go," Harry said curtly.

"You know, Tommy's really not all that bad," Renee said thoughtfully. "You two get on all right most of the time. And he's cute, athletic, not bad on the surf—"

"Look, I just don't want him around Ginny, all right?"

"Why not?"

"Because I don't."

"Fine. I'll tell him she's off limits," said Renee amiably. "I'll keep him in line."

"Good."

There was a pause, and then Renee, still nonchalantly wily, said, "So, why're you so cranky this morning? I _know_ you barely had a sip."

"I'm not cranky," Harry said grumpily.

"Oh no, definitely not." Even from the closet, Ginny could hear the smirk in the older girl's voice.

"Just shut up, okay? I don't want to talk about it—ah, damn," he swore. "Hand me my wand, will you?"

"_Accio!_"

Ginny, already close to the door, leaned a bit closer to the small gap, her ears ringing from the conversation about her. She felt irritated and confused. Why couldn't Harry just be unconcerned and uninterested? Unrequited love was great company with the rest of her misery, and maybe then she wouldn't feel so guilty and deceptive—just completely, utterly miserable. Somehow betrayal was a bit easier to deal with when it was against someone who held you as someone of no importance.

"Whopper cut, Hay," whistled Renee, "but I do believe you're supposed to trim the broom, not your hand."

"Ha ha."

"Are you going to the park today? I know Hugo teed the pitch for Wednesday evening. We've got that tourney coming up."

"Maybe."

Deciding that she'd listened long enough and probably wouldn't gain much information aside from Quidditch, Ginny turned on the light and changed into her Wheezes t-shirt and pulled on the gray shorts from yesterday. After running a brush through her long hair, she wound it into a loose knot, glanced into the tiny mirror dangling from a hook in the wall, and decided that she'd wear a little eyeliner today. Snatching the small applicator, she crossed two steps to the bathroom and closed the door to collect herself before she faced the day—or rather, Harry.

Freshly scrubbed and eyes accentuated (she better be on her guard), Ginny entered the kitchen/living room area to find Renee laying on the couch, her legs up on the back, a magazine propped against them, and Harry on the floor, his Firebolt and a maintenance kit laid out before him.

"Weasley—Wizard—Wheezes," Renee read aloud, looking up when Ginny came within her eye range. "What's that?"

"My brothers' joke shop," said Ginny, her eyes trailing to Harry, who seemed very interested in polishing his Firebolt.

"Cool." Renee sat up, her long, tanned legs swinging to the floor. She closed the magazine and clapped her hands together. "It's about ten—did you want to go shopping before I go to work? Or swim? I'd just say Harry could take you, but he's not into either of those things."

At her feet, Harry cleared his throat and started putting his servicing kit away, the polishing rag draped over his shoulder. Ginny thought he might have glanced at her, but it was so fleeting it could have been her imagination. As if uninterested in her answer, he got up to return the Firebolt to the front closet.

Feeling the sting of his coolness, she tried to appear casual and unworried as she looked down at Renee's expectant face. "Sure, that'd be great," she said.

"Brill! I know just where to go—"

"D'you want breakfast?" called Harry.

"I already had—"

"Not you—Ginny. No one can keep up with you on an empty stomach," said Harry.

"He has a point, you know," Renee told Ginny, winking. "He's sworn off ever going to the markies with me. Go on," she added, rolling her eyes toward the kitchen. "He doesn't make breakfast for _me_."

Still feeling awkward and unsettled by Harry's cool demeanor and sudden offer, Ginny obeyed Renee and went into the kitchen, licking her lips nervously as Harry turned to her. His face was rather closed off, but since he'd been that way around her and everyone else for so long, she couldn't say it upset her that much. Actually, she felt strangely relieved and strained at the same time on such familiar ground.

"D'you want eggs or bangers or pancakes or something else?" he asked. As if sensing her indecision, Harry said, "There's toast or fruit, too."

"I'll—I'll just have that," Ginny said lamely. She felt like a sod, especially as Harry promptly popped some bread into the toaster and set butter, marmalade, orange juice, and strawberries out on the island in front of her. She couldn't tell whether or not he was offended by her lack of enthusiasm for what was probably a peace offering. Why did he have to be so obtuse and nice at once?

Just as she bit into her toast (and Harry was obviously trying to find something to do), a shrill ring burst through the apartment, causing her to drop her breakfast.

"I'll get it!" said Harry, springing toward the far counter.

Ginny realized that the phone was ringing and retrieved her toast from her lap, brushing the crumbs off hastily.

"Oh, hallo, Simon," Harry greeted. There was a pause. "How soon? Right now? Um—" He glanced at Ginny, his brow furrowing. She looked down at her toast, chewing slowly. "—Yeah, sure, I can do that. I'll be there shortly. Bye."

"What was that?" asked Renee, coming into the kitchen as Harry hung up.

"I've got to go in. Roberto called in sick," said Harry, tugging on a tuft of hair, "and some tour group has reservations, so they're understaffed."

"You couldn't just ask him to get someone else?"

Harry shrugged, frowning. "I already told him I'd go."

"But we can't leave Ginny to boredom!"

"There's plenty to do just down the street," said Harry, not quite looking at Ginny. "And you're taking her to Oxford and the Junction, not to mention there's the beach and park—"

"Oh, just nevermind," Renee huffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Get going."

Harry disappeared into his bedroom, and a couple of minutes later they heard a sharp crack as he Disapparated.

"Harry works?" asked Ginny.

"Yeah, a little," said Renee, flopping onto a barstool. "Why do you sound so surprised?"

Ginny shrugged and picked at the toast crust. "It's just that . . . he's got money and he's on sabbatical, so I didn't think he'd really want to work."

"Interest rates don't keep up with living and traveling," said Renee, brushing hair away from her face. "Harry said he's got enough money left to help with the rent for awhile, but he's also rather—oh what's the word?—well, his blood's worth bottling—not like those surfies. He doesn't feel right about not doing anything but playing Quidditch for the pub, so he gets an odd job here or there. Like today, Simon called him into Jumbuck's to cook."

"Is that a Muggle restaurant?"

"Unfortunately," Renee cringed. "And not the best stuff, either. It's more of a tourist spot in Bondi. We generally try to keep away from it. But I owed Simon's cousin—I went to school with him—a favor, so when Max—that's the cousin—asked if I knew anyone who could fill in one night—just about every cook had fever; I think they'd been training someone new the night before, and something wasn't prepared right, so they got sick—anyway, I knew Harry was looking for something to do, so he rocked up and Simon liked him enough to give him the position of fill-in lackey."

Ginny, used to following sporadic explanations (the twins, Hermione, Colin, etc), digested this and asked, "So, Max is a wizard?"

"Yeah. Simon doesn't know that, though. He just thinks we went to a boarding school in Queensland." Renee took a strawberry and twirled it between her thumb and forefinger. "Harry generally does stuff for Muggles. He helped old Mrs. Cornwall move and weeded her garden and stuff." She bit into the strawberry, chewed thoughtfully, and then went on. "You can't really get into a wizard job without some training, and I don't think he knows what he wants to do. I mean, he quit Auror training, right, and traveled the world—not exactly the actions of someone certain what he wants, is it?"

Ginny shifted uncomfortably and looked down at her plate.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," said Renee. She bit off the rest of her fruit. "If I didn't love Australia or my job so much, I'd probably be doing the same thing."

"What do you do again?" Ginny asked curiously, opting for a couple of strawberries herself.

"Disc jockey for the AWWN. I take the one to five shift. It's not a bad gig, really. I get to chatter and choose music and bring the wizarding world some Muggle music—and get to meet bands and review them. I send the Muggle reviews to websites and magazines, too.

"I'd do it for free, really," Renee continued, "but I guess actually getting paid makes it seem less lowly and dero to Sean and Diana. They're not exactly pleased that I've got a share in the opals."

"Who?"

"Oh, they're my bro and sis—sort of. I'm adopted." Renee flicked her strawberry stem into the rubbish bin while Ginny tried to hide her surprise. The open, buoyant girl did not radiate the bereft, closed aura she'd first witnessed in Harry.

"I didn't know that," she said quietly. "Harry didn't tell me." She studied Renee, unable to connect this orphan with the one her family had more or less adopted all those years ago.

"Not surprised," said Renee with a shrug. "He doesn't exactly gossip about people, does he?"

"No," she agreed, fidgeting under Renee's scrutinizing gaze. "So, were you adopted by Muggles or wizards?" Ginny asked, hoping she wasn't treading out-of-bounds. The topic of parents was always a painful one for Harry.

"Muggles. See, Mums and Dad—er, the ones who adopted me—had a girl—Kristina—that got her letter for Queenstead. They let her go, but Sean and Diana, they were younger, never got their letters. Anyway, I'm not quite sure what happened, but Kristina was training to be a cursebreaker and was killed during an expedition in Tasmania.

"A couple of years later, Mums and Dad decided they wanted to adopt a witch. Sean and Diana were about ready for uni, and they decided they still wanted another kid, but they were a bit past age, so they went to adopt. It's rather difficult to adopt through the Muggle system, so they appealed to the magical world." Renee paused, her head tilted thoughtfully to the side. "I was about six then and lived in the orphanage my whole life, so it was a bit of a shock to be adopted." She smiled suddenly. "Mums and Dad are brilliant. They were so relieved when I said I didn't want to do anything but music, surf, and Quidditch—especially since I decided to go both ways and honor my surrogate Muggle heritage."

"What about Sean and Diana?" asked Ginny, remembering how Harry had said his Aunt Petunia despised his mother for being a witch.

Renee scrunched her face. "We get on all right, I guess. They don't necessarily approve of my 'irresponsible lifestyle,' but Mums and Dad just told them that not everyone needs to wear a suit." She grinned mischievously. "They really didn't like that, especially when I got a share in the opals on my seventeenth birthday. Now I can be as bohemian as I want and spend the profits off pretty rocks."

Ginny shook her head, amazed at the ease this girl had with her life. Her adopted parents were rich and did not push her to achieve with the rest of the family. No wonder Renee Blackstone seemed so content and free.

"I know, you want to hate me now," laughed Renee, catching the look on Ginny's face. "I admit it—I do have it rather good. Maybe that's why Harry agreed to bunk up with me," she added, moving to put the condiments back in the fridge.

Putting her chin in her hand, Ginny watched the girl, mulling over what she'd just heard. She could definitely see why Harry would be drawn to her and this place: as an orphan, Renee could empathize and understand what his friends could not, but she also was so open and accepting of people that he could experience a life not ravaged or tainted by war. Ginny knew enough about people and life to know that Renee Blackstone's life could not possibly be as rosy as it first seemed, but the Aussie definitely had a brighter perspective.

_I could probably learn a thing or two from her_, Ginny thought glumly, trying to ignore the underlying resentment she felt.

Holding back a sigh, Ginny helped Renee clean up, then changed into a pair of Renee's cutoffs, and followed her to the markets and shops scattered along Oxford Street. A veteran at finding bargains and shopping quickly, Renee enthusiastically helped Ginny find two "cozzies" (bathing suits), some summer-appropriate tops (it turned out that none of Renee's cast-offs were shrunken, as Ginny had thought, but a youthful Muggle style), shorts, flip-flops, and some "decent wandering shoes." Shopping felt more enjoyable and less of a guilty pleasure with the fantastic exchange rate, and Ginny felt some of her conscientious spending disappear.

Breathless but exhilarated at a quarter past noon, they grabbed a counter lunch of iced lemonade and mozzarella sticks.

"See?" said Renee, dipping her stick into the marinara sauce. "I told you I'm an excellent shopper."

"I think Harry was right," Ginny laughed, helping herself to the fattening but delicious food. "You're exhausting. You have Aly beat."

"Aly?"

"She's my best friend and roommate." Thinking of how Alyson would have had a complete spasm down Oxford Street, Ginny felt a slight pang that she couldn't share it with her friend. Gazing out at the wide expanse of crowded, hot Bondi Beach, Ginny decided she'd buy a camera and snap pictures for her friend and owl her very soon.

"Good view, isn't it?" said Renee, following Ginny's gaze. "The water is lovely enough, but I rather prefer the surfies."

Giggling, Ginny had to agree as a group of wet, board-carrying and very tan surfers came up the steps from the beach, speaking in a language that she knew somehow originated from English but sounded nothing like it.

"How're the waves, lads?" asked Renee as they started to pass their table.

"Bonzer," said a shaggy-headed blonde sporting reflecting sunglasses and carrying a vibrantly orange board. Behind his shades, Ginny had a feeling he was checking Renee out. An appreciative smile curved up his thin lips as he and Renee exchanged some sort of surfing banter. Then he followed his mates to the order window.

"Too bad I have to go to yakka," sighed Renee, gazing out at the beach full of scantily-clad, sunbaking Muggles. She glanced at her watch and frowned. "We better pop back to the unit and drop off your things."

They gathered their bags (Ginny wasn't the only one spending money) and walked off the main streets of Bondi to Apparate out of view. After Renee left for work, Ginny sifted through the CD collection scattered around the entertainment center, and smiled warmly when she discovered some familiar bands that Joe had hooked her on. She found the Eve 6 album and flipped to _Open Road Song_ and cranked it up as high as she thought the neighbors would tolerate.

Singing along and moving her body with little nods, she stacked up a small playlist. Rum leaped onto the couch, his lavender eyes watching her interestedly. She ignored him and decided to take full advantage, as she never had before, of an empty flat and glorious stereo system—

"_The night is beckoning although I have nowhere to go but home. Feels good to be alone! With every turn comes a new frame of mind, if I could frame my mind where would it hang? I crack a window and feel the cool air cleanse my every pore as I pore my heart out to a radio song that's patient and willing to listen, my volume drowns it out—"_

Her voice grew louder as the guitar, drums, and vocals reached a new height, riding the emotion of the lyrics. "—_Yeah, but that's okay, cause I sound better than him anyway any day. Yeah my voice is sweet as salt! I search for comfort and I find it where I've found it many times before—Times before can be forgotten!"_

As the chorus ripped through the apartment, Ginny laughed and spun in a circle, causing Rum to shrink back. Although she'd never cruised around on the open road, she knew the state of mind, the overriding emotion, of this song—it explained how she'd felt last night, gazing out at the stars and glowing sprawl of the eastern suburbs. Hearing the song now, one that Joe had played on occasion, she burst with the energy that had been contemplative last night.

The song ended.

Ginny, breathless, quickly loaded the CD tray with more, adding in a band she was not familiar with. Once guitar and drums filled her ears, she crossed the apartment to her shopping bags and went to her little cupboard to sort through everything.

As she did so, she came across her writing journal. Perhaps she would write this afternoon. If nothing else, she would definitely record her impression of Australia. She set it down on her pillow and finished sorting out her purchases, nodding instinctively to the music coming through her wide-open door.

Deciding that the day was too gorgeous and feeling warmer toward Renee, Ginny decided to take up Renee's suggestion of going to the beach. She really wanted to stand atop the cliff Harry had shown her, stretch out her arms, and feel the ocean beckon to her.

She changed into her new jade green bikini, feeling somewhat promiscuous in what Renee had claimed would be "a killer." Compared to many of the other tiny costumes on the racks, Ginny thought this one was comparatively modest, but this didn't help her mother from nagging in her ear. Somehow she doubted the cute, tiny koala embroidered on her left hip would help appease Molly Weasley.

"Well, you're not here, mother," she said aloud, "and Renee says I look great, so I'm going to wear this." But as she looked down her pale, freckled body, she had doubts. _I'll definitely use that cream Renee set out_, she thought. The older girl had warned that the many Irish travelers haunting Bondi sizzled and fried under the sun. Ginny had a feeling she'd do just about the same.

Once she'd massaged the sun lotion into her skin, using a her wand to get her back and also casting an extra Anti-Sunburn Charm, she tied her new sarong around her waist and pulled a white tank-top over her bikini top; she stuffed her quilted satchel with some money, sunglasses, and her writing journal and pen. As an afterthought, she remembered a beach towel and charmed it to fit neatly into the satchel.

She Apparated a few minutes later behind the boulder, hid her wand in her satchel, and stepped out to see Bronte Beach.

Now in the early afternoon hours, the smaller beach was fuller—but still not nearly as packed as Bondi, where she'd just had lunch. Surfers and boogie boarders were rising with the swells while waders braced themselves against the hissing foam reaching up the white sand. Sunbathers stretched out on towels, their skin glowing under the hot sun. Under the shade of some edging trees, a family was in the middle of a picnic.

Ginny smiled and vowed to test out the water in a little bit. Then she turned and made her way up the little trail she'd gone up just yesterday. As she climbed, she saw several Muggles coming down a path to her right, cameras swinging around their necks as they tried to hold onto their hats.

"Oh, that was a lovely walk, wasn't it?" said a middle-aged woman breathlessly.

"My knee hurts," said another, limping a little. "Is the bus close or do we have to turn around?"

Ginny watched the little group make their way down the gentler path, then continued her climb. She was relieved to find their path did not follow hers up to the leaning trees and double rocks; she did not want this spot to be intruded upon.

In bright daylight, the ocean sparkled and moved differently in the distance, its deep blue, capping waves became indistinguishable from the sky. Sailboats glided languidly through the waves, cutting a white, rippling ribbon behind them. Further out a white ship made its way north toward Sydney Harbour, its distant, blasting horn drifting on the wind to warn the pleasure crafts to get out of its way. Waves crashed against the rocks below her, sending up spray that almost but not quite reached the cliff's lip.

Stretching her arms out, Ginny opened her mouth and shouted, "HELLOOOOOOOOO!"

As if in answer, a deafening crack exploded below her as a large wave smacked into the hard rock. She jumped back and laughed at her silliness. Then she climbed one of the boulders and perched on top, feeling the sun heat her skin.

After some time of just absorbing the sun and ocean breeze, she took out her notebook and pen to jot her impressions. Once she moved past describing this very spot and what she'd seen so far of Sydney, she moved on to Renee.

"**Renee Blackstone is the epitome of what we all might have imagined we'd be like the first few years out of Hogwarts, if only we hadn't already** **been forced to see the darker side of life and so much death and pain. We would have felt our ages—nothing but aspiration and hormones and an optimistic view of what is ahead of us. I may have been just like her, but now I'll never know. If I had been born down here, gone to school at Queenstead and never known what I do, I can almost imagine myself so free-spirited now. **

**I know I could have, actually. Around fourth year, I would have believed this in-between world Renee dwells in. I think then I could have borne the belief that we would survive, we would go on, and after Hogwarts, I'd have fun with my friends and celebrate with everyone else when Harry wins England the World Cup.**

**I'd even fancied the idea of traveling the world, with absolutely no intention other than to see and experience it—not the way I was compelled to do it now.**

**But then I wonder about Miss Blackstone. Is she really content? Or does she hide in this in-between world? She said she likes to have only temporary roommates, people who wander. Why does she really do this? Is it because she's an orphan? Her story is so different from Harry's, but they're both living in-between at the moment. Wait—no. Harry's living in the in-between that Renee provided for him.**

**So why does she provide for others this little niche?**

Unable to answer her own question, Ginny capped her pen and started down the rock. The sun was making her feel rather hot and the water beckoned invitingly. Once she reached the beach, she shed her flip-flops and sunk her toes deep into the white sand, delighting as the tiny grains filled between her toes and cushioned her feet.

Somewhat shyly, she shed her sarong and shirt, noticing that her skin seemed to be glowing under the sun. Frowning, she tried to decipher if it was burning or not, but it was hard to tell. Renee had warned that often sunburns were misleading and didn't look so bad until a few hours later. Still, she hadn't turned pink yet (thanks to the spell), and it didn't hurt to touch.

After casting an anti-theft jinx on her things, she made her way down to the surf, very aware how pale she was compared to the other beachgoers. A dog ran past her with a Frisbee clutched in his mouth. She watched it skid to a halt before his master and bark eagerly as the man sent the toy sailing away again. He caught her eye and grinned. She smiled politely and continued down to the wet sand.

She squeaked in surprise when sand started to disappear under her feet as the next wave pulled at the shore before breaking and sending foam hissing up to her ankles. Remembering Renee's warning not to go out too far, lest she get caught in a riptide or a wave she couldn't handle. "Just look where the other swimmers are. Don't go out to the surfers," she'd said seriously. "Once you get past the first breaks, it's easier to relax and go with the swell, but you have to be alert, 'cause you can get pulled further out before you know it."

Heeding this advice, she gradually made it out to her waist. Sand still disappeared from underneath her, but it didn't feel nearly so unbalancing and the gentle swell of incoming waves would push her closer to shore and she'd find the sand again. She noticed the other "swimmers" riding the swells as well while they chatted amiably with one another. Keeping close but not too close to be intruding, she listened absently to their conversation while making sure she wasn't being dragged out to sea.

At one point, one of older women (who had been talking of her neighbor who had stocked up on food for the Y2K scare) turned to Ginny and opened up some small chatting. By the time the group decided they were ready to go in for "a quick nip," she'd learned of some other choice places to visit as well as eateries to avoid. She followed them in, not wanting to drift where she shouldn't.

Laying out her towel, she decided to watch the surfers while drying out. Shortly after she'd settled down, however, the young man with the dog wandered over, carrying what looked like a shrunken surfboard. The yellowish dog immediately start sniffing her, so, giggling, Ginny reached out to scratch him behind the ears.

"G'day," the dog owner greeted. "I'm Bryan. D'you boogie?"

"Sorry?"

"Do you boogie board?" he asked again, waving the electric blue board.

"Er—no," said Ginny, feeling rather foolish. "This is my first time in the ocean." The dog tried to lick her face, but she gently pushed him away. He whined softly but then smiled and thumped his tail as she continued to pet him

"Would you like to learn?" the Australian said. "Slobber here's quite good and he only bites if you botch it up."

Ginny laughed. "Sure, why not?"

Harry bit back a groan as he fished his keys out of his pocket and made his way up the staircase to number six. Tourist group parties always meant more work and a grumpier Simon, and today had been no exception. He smelled of kitchen: deep fry, grease, fish, and sweat. A shower sounded wonderful just about now . . .

He had just about made it to his floor when he heard the front door open and voices below.

"G'day to you, Spunk," Tommy's hit-on voice echoed up to Harry. "Sav! You've been kissed by the sun today, love."

"Timothy, right?" said a familiar voice, causing Harry to whirl around and nearly fall down the stairs. Ginny stood just inside the door wearing something that would most definitely haunt him tonight and a black, mesh sarong that opened over one very freckled thigh. He couldn't see much of her face under the dark shades, but Harry was hardly looking at her face, anyway.

"Tommy—but no worries. Anyway, love, I'm throwing a real ripper Sunday—"

"Oh!" said Ginny, sounding a touch remorseful. "Renee said we were meeting some friends tomorrow night. Otherwise I'd love to come, but I already promised . . ." She trailed off and a small, please-forgive-me-I'm-so-cute-and-innocent smile crept under her opaque sunglasses.

Harry knew that smile well. She'd used it several times to get out of sticky situations. The only person it hadn't worked on had been Snape—he'd given her detention.

"No worries," said Tommy, sounding rather disappointed. But he still smiled and Harry also knew _that_ smile—and he didn't like it. "I'll just Cook on you later then. How 'bout I walk you up?"

"Sure," Ginny shrugged, "but you needn't trouble yourself an extra flight."

"Ah, I need the exercise."

As they turned to go up the stairs, Harry didn't miss the way Tommy brushed up against Ginny, his fingertips briefly skimming the curve of her hips. Something hot pulsed through Harry, and it was all he could do not to pull out his wand and turn the randy little whelk into a cane toad. Ginny, for her part, seemed to stiffen at this brief contact, but she said nothing as she started to climb the stairs.

Tommy, still keeping too close in Harry's opinion, kept up a light chatter as they drew nearer to Harry's place on the next flight. Ginny nodded and gave little answers, but Harry knew these signals well enough—she'd used them on him—she was only tolerating Tommy until she could get away. Just as they turned on the first landing to start up the second—Harry's flight—Ginny seemed to look up: her mouth opened and shut subtly, making Harry wish she wasn't hiding behind those sunglasses.

Tommy looked up as well and raised his eyebrows at Harry. "G'day, Potter! You look a right mess. What's that smell?"

"Hello, Tommy," said Harry as politely as he could manage under the circumstances. "Sorry we can't come to the barbie tomorrow."

"Hey, you've got other plans, no bother, mate. I was just hoping to get to know Ginny, here, a little better, is all," he said, casually slipping an arm around her exposed waist.

"Yes, well," said Ginny abruptly, moving forward out of Tommy's grasp. "Some other time. Anyway, Tim—_Tom_my—Harry's here, so you're off the hook. Bye!"

Tommy shot Harry a dark look, and Harry tried not to look too smug. With a final smile for Ginny, Tommy bid farewell and went off to his own apartment, leaving them on the stairs. The moment he was inside the door, Ginny let out a breath and shuddered. "Lecherous little . . ." she muttered something rather impolite under her breath and Harry couldn't help but grin.

She stopped, tilted her chin up, and sniffed the air. "He is right, though, Potter—you stink."

"Well, you work in a restaurant all day and see how you smell afterwards," Harry said defensively.

Ginny smirked and started up the stairs. As he watched the small of her back and the curve of her hips move, tight knots formed in his stomach. He swore mentally and started after her, deciding it would not be safe to remain behind her. But once he was beside her, he couldn't help but glance over at her profile, where—ahem—_other_ curves were evident and not at all helpful in solving what could very well be a big problem.

_Stop it, Potter, you perv_.

"So . . . you went to the beach?" he said stupidly, his voice rather constrained.

"Yes."

"Ah." Harry felt like smacking his forehead against something very hard, preferably granite. Iron would do as well.

"I hope I didn't burn," she added, stretching her arms out as they came to their floor. She looked at each arm, a slight frown on her face. Then she pushed her sunglasses up her head and looked at her arms again. "I don't think I did, do you? I've got more freckles, and I'm a little pink, but it doesn't _look_ burnt."

"Um . . ." Harry tried to look only at her arms, but it was hard—er, difficult. She had freckles going down her neck to other places that he should not know about, a very good collection on her stomach, and all the way down her legs.

"Harry?"

He forced himself to look up, heat racing all the way from his toes to the very top of his head. He had a sneaking suspicion that he rather resembled Ron at the moment.

Ginny was giving him a peculiar look, with her arms still out for inspection. Her face was definitely more freckled than before and her nose seemed rather pink. "Does it look bad? Renee said that it might not look as bad as it is at first. Can you tell?"

"Are you mad? Do you _enjoy_ torturing me like this?" Harry wanted to shout, but he bit his tongue and tried to gather his wits. "Erm . . . it doesn't look bad," he mumbled, pasting his eyes on the number 6 on his door. He really needed that cold shower . . .

"Hmm. Maybe I'll lotion it, just to be safe," she murmured.

_Oh Merlin_ . . .

"Yeah. Good idea."

"Are you all right, Harry? You sound odd."

"I'm just tired." Harry drew out his keys and made for the door before he completely lost it.

Just as Ginny was setting her satchel on the counter and Harry was opening his mouth to excuse himself to the stopping effects of a cold shower, a large, white seagull flew in through the window and alighted on the counter, a red envelop trembling in his opened beak.

"Oh no," Ginny moaned as the bird waddled toward her. Cringing, she snatched the Howler. "It's addressed to me and You-Know-Who-You-Are."

"You-Know-Who—oh. _OH_." Harry backed away, suddenly very frightened that Mrs. Weasley, whom this was undoubtedly from, would place him on the same level as Voldemort. "Just bloody open it," he said meekly as smoke started to billow from the Howler.

"I'm so sorry in advanced," Ginny apologized. She took a deep breath—the bird launched out the window—and opened it.

"_GINEVRA MOLLY WEASLEY—HOW DARE YOU RUN OFF LIKE THAT WITHOUT TELLING ANYONE! YOUR FATHER AND I STOPPED BY YOUR PLACE TO SEE HOW YOU WERE WE WERE SO WORRIED AFTER CHRISTMAS AND WERE ABSOLUTELY SHOCKED AND HURT TO HEAR FROM THAT LOVELY BAKER GIRL THAT YOU'D TRAIPSED OFF TO AUSTRALIA! _

"_AND YOU—HARRY JAMES POTTER—NOT TELLING ANY OF US! IT'S ONE THING NOT TO TELL US ABOUT YOUR DOINGS AND LET US WORRY LIKE THIS BUT TO TAKE GINNY WITH YOU AND NOT TELL ANYONE! IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO HER I WILL MAKE YOU WISH YOU NEVER LEFT ENGLAND!_

_YOU TWO BETTER HAVE A GOOD EXPLANATION LIKE ELOPING TO HAVE DONE THIS! AND IF YOU ARE ELOPING YOU ARE IN DEEP TROUBLE FOR NOT LETTING ME PLAN THE WEDDING! I EXPECT LONG OWLS VERY SOON!"_

With that, Molly Weasley's towering voice stopped rattling the light fixtures, and the Howler shredded into a small pile like ash. Silence echoed loudly as Harry and Ginny stared at the remains, their ears ringing.

"Well," said Ginny, her voice unusually high. "Mum knows."

"Yeah." Harry was still trying to get past the thought of Mrs. Weasley thinking they'd eloped. _She's not even close_ . . . He couldn't look at Ginny. "Well—er, I'm going to take a shower," he muttered, heading for the bathroom.

Except now he wasn't in need of a cold one. Mrs. Weasley had seen to that.

More Strine

the mob – group of people (this springs from a group of kangaroos)

the Wombats – Hay and Nay's pub league

Shark Biscuit – beginner surfer

rock up – arrive, turn up

teed (tee up) – book it, make an appointment, etc

dero – derelict

counter lunch – pub lunch

yakka – work

Spunk – a good-looking, attractive person

Sav – exclamation of wonder, disbelief, or the Aussie version of Movie!Ron overusing "Bloody hell!"

Cook on you later – from Captain Cook, in other words, it's "look" in "Let's have a Captain Cook." Tommy Boy has exercised the right of turning a noun into a verb and shortening it


	16. Unresolved Tension

Chapter Sixteen

"_Unresolved Tension"_

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_Mother – I am appalled that you would howl me over something not worthy of your impressive vocals. I am eighteen and certainly old enough to go anywhere in the world I want without first consulting you for permission. However, I am sorry that I had to keep this a secret from you, but it was only to avoid your vocals in the flesh._

_Also, Harry is in NO WAY to blame for this. I begged him to let me come. Trust me, he didn't want to keep a secret from either of you. And no, we're not eloping. How many times do I have to tell people we're only friends?_

_I'm sure you're expecting—no, demanding—an explanation or reason for why I've gone off to Australia in secret. Well, you're not going to get one. It's my decision. You'll have to be content with the realization that your daughter needed a holiday._

_Anyway, I love you both very much. You'll be happy to know that Harry is a better cook than I am, so I am getting more nutrition than usual._

_Love,_

_Ginny_

_Dear Alyson and Joe,_

_Well, I've been in Australia for over a week—and it's been utter madness! We arrived Friday morning. By Sunday I was just getting settled when all hell broke loose. Honestly, I thought my house could get chaotic, but it's different when you're in a foreign place with strangers._

_Sunday night Renee (Harry's flat mate) took us over to Hugo's for a regular bash with the rest of the Dingoes. They're a local side that Harry and Renee play for. Hugo is exactly as you'd imagine a Hugo to be—brawny, bearded, but very good-humored. I imagine him to be an excellent Beater. He's got the cutest little girlfriend called Shelly. She also seems to be similar to her name. She's really petite (I felt somewhat tall next to her), shy, blonde with these really cute curls, glasses, and she was absolutely sweet. I think she has a slight crush on Harry._

_Anyway, they were having a barbecue (Barbie) with the entire team there and everyone's friends. Apparently there's a tournament coming up, so this was a sort of pecker-bash to pump everyone up. Harry got the brunt of the jokes, since he's the outsider coming in. Renee and I vouched for him, though, and I know by their good-humor that they were impressed during practices._

_While at the party, Hugo said that he's got a friend that needs a place to stay for a couple of nights, because he and Shelly don't have room and their landlord is rather strict about tenants or something like that. So Mark came home with us. But on Monday two of Renee's friends stopped by begging for a spot on the floor, because they just got back from holiday in Indonesia to discover their flat completely infested with a rather nasty hive of doxies. They and Mark stayed till Thursday. However, on Wednesday, one of Renee's Muggle friends (who doesn't know she's a witch), who is her backpacker connection, called to say that this Irish bloke had all his stuff stolen, so he needed somewhere to stay before he could call his bank to halt everything and wire money._

_So we had a mad scramble to hide anything magical. Renee bunked up with her friends, Harry shared his room with Mark (who had the sense to bring his own pillows and blankets), and the others took the living room couch and mattress. I lucked out, because my room is too small to share. _

_I didn't see much of Mark or the other misfortunes. At first I'd just escape to the beach (I have so many freckles now that I'm practically tan!) or library (Renee set up an account so I could check out under her name), but I think the company really got to Harry as well, because then he insisted on taking me on a tourist round of Sydney. So we went down to the Wharf and Aquarium, took a boat around the harbor, went to the zoo, and went up the sky tour. Renee told him off for not taking me to the QVB, which is the gorgeous, classy shopping center I have no hope of affording. It's got several wizarding levels underground._

_I'm currently writing you this from the beach. It's Sunday and Renee insisted that we all go (me, she, and Harry). I'll tell you more about The Rocks and such later._

_Love,_

_Ginny_

_P.S. Joe, I reckon you'd get on well with Renee. She's a music fanatic, too._

"Right, then," Renee said as Ginny tucked her letter into her satchel. "I think we've all sunbaked enough, don't you?" Dusting sand off her arms and black bikini, she stood up and put her hands on her hips as she looked pointedly at Harry and Ginny.

Ginny shrugged and leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her knees. She pressed her heels into her beach towel and felt the sand give way under the pressure. "I'm really not up for swimming today."

Renee rolled her eyes. "You sound like Harry," she grumbled, nudging him with her foot. He growled but remained motionless where he was lying peacefully on his stomach, head resting on his crossed arms, away from the afternoon sun. "You don't like to swim, do you, Hay?"

Sneaking a glance at Harry's prone form, Ginny caught a flicker of displeasure blemish his otherwise expressionless face. Harry had once confessed that he had a slight fear of swimming because Dudley used to try to drown him and the Second Task had not helped his misgivings. Ginny could hardly blame him for that.

"I promise the sharks won't be out to feed," giggled Renee, dropping to her knees and leaning over Harry. "They don't like English meat." She extended a hand toward Harry's exposed side, poised . . . "Not that you _have_ much meat, anyway—"

It happened in a flash. Renee's fingertips barely glazed Harry's white, worn t-shirt when his arm shot out, his hand snatching her wrist. In a swift following sweep, Harry's body followed his arm, so that he was sitting upright, his hands on each of Renee's wrists to prevent her from tickling him.

For a second, Renee's mouth hung open in surprise, but then she dissolved into giggles again and rocked backwards—Harry released her so she fell on her backside.

"I told you never to sneak up on me," said Harry mildly.

Renee kicked playfully at him, sending a spray of sand over his towel and legs. "One of these days I'll get you," she grinned broadly, returning to her knees. "Just you wait, Potter, when you least expect it—"

"Uh-huh," said Harry. He flopped onto his back. "Now go away. I was trying to nap."

"You're a regular piker, Potter," Renee groused, frowning.

"You'll get over it."

Renee scowled but her displeasure vanished as her eyes snapped eagerly to Ginny. "What about you, Gin?"

Behind half-closed eyes, Harry's gaze flicked toward Ginny. She quickly looked away. Over the past week, she felt the underlying tension that had increased from the beginning of the trip after their exchange on the balcony. Neither of them spoke of it, but it always seemed to be hovering in their meaningless conversations. How could they speak as friends when Harry had spoken the truth that night? They hadn't been friends for two years. Ginny had a suspicious feeling that Harry was waiting for her to give a signal that they could be more than the merest of friends, but she simply could not do it. Why should now be any different than two years ago?

Unable to stand the tension, she'd escape early every morning into Sydney. One day she walked Oxford Street all the way to City Centre, where, exhausted, she rested in a bookstore with a coffee shop for several hours. That evening she traversed George Street (the oldest street in Australia) and Elizabeth Street, enjoying her anonymity and the nightlife. Another day she visited several parks, grudgingly taking the Apparition guide and biting down her fear of intelligent parchments. She even popped into Randwick Racecourse and decided that if she ever chose a profession in the Muggle world, it would be as a jockey.

She enjoyed her wandering. Armed with a pen and notebook, she would sit on a park bench or at an open café table and imagine a little girl named Sarah, who had only an old granny that took long naps, so she would wander off and become lost in the city around her. Having experienced enough adventure in her own life, Ginny was not fond of reading about fictitious ones, so Sarah only had little, everyday misadventures and met lots of interesting people, but mostly she just pondered the world around her. Sometimes she returned home before dark, where her granny woke up to fix supper, but other nights Sarah curled up on a park bench, trying not to cry under the watching stars.

Ginny herself came "home" around dusk, when her stomach and feet could take her wandering no more. Renee had been absolutely stricken that Ginny had felt "pushed out" by all the company, but Ginny had assured Renee that she liked to wander and explore on her own. Harry, on the other hand, had not vocalized his opinion about her absences, but he had been up by the time she was trying to sneak away unnoticed, asking nonchalantly what she had planned for that day. Each time she either answered "the beach," or "I'm just going for a walk." She didn't offer for him to come along and he didn't ask.

Those moments, when he nodded and looked so closed off, were the worst for Ginny. But what could she do to stop it? Harry had to be used to her rejection by now.

So she'd been rather startled on Wednesday night after a very noisy, crowded supper when Harry found her airing out in the back garden. "Have you been to the Sky Tower?" he'd asked, leaning against the tree she was under. When she said "no," he'd offered to take her there tomorrow, along with some of the other Muggle tourist attractions. "I need a break from that," he said wearily, gesturing up toward the balcony where Mark, Liam, and Rosa were raucously singing "Waltzing Matilda."

She didn't have the heart to tell him no. Luckily, Harry didn't seem to be in a particularly talkative mood Thursday, and although she'd felt the uncertainty between them, the excursion provided them with sufficient distraction. The aquarium and tower had been the highlight of her day, especially right after a child, while standing up on the seats to peer down at the miniscule traffic under the Sky Tower, had dropped his ice cream into Harry's lap.

Friday Renee had taken them all out again to more music shows, Saturday had been the QVB (Harry had stayed behind) and Dingo training, and now Ginny finally felt the week come to an end just as another was beginning. While this brought the end to crowding guests and raucous drinking songs, Renee's insistent prodding that Ginny learn to surf had not ceased.

"I don't know," Ginny shrugged now, not quite meeting Renee's eager face. "I'm really rather tired."

"Bullocks. Don't be a sook. Look," said Renee, "if you're nervous, I can teach you how to boogie board first. It's like surfing on your stomach."

"Oh, I already had a lesson in that," said Ginny, grateful for her extremely freckled, browner skin. She could feel a hint of warmth betraying her as she surreptitiously stole a glance at Harry. "This Brian bloke gave me a lesson Saturday."

Harry, whose eyes hadn't quite managed to close convincingly, seemed to tense.

"Really?" said Renee, smirking knowingly. "You never mentioned this."

Ginny shrugged dismissively. "It wasn't anything great. I swallowed a lot of saltwater." _And retched it up on his dog._ Boogie boarding didn't sit well in her mind, and she doubted Brian had been very impressed by her lack of talent for the board. She'd start out well enough, but soon the break would overcome her and she would suddenly be rolling under the wave, skin scraping against sand, her nostrils and mouth filling with revolting seawater. Once or twice she'd made it in without being overtaken, but by then she'd already been so sick that it hadn't mattered. Brian had seemed patient and flirtatious up until she lost it on the dog, and then he'd seemed ready to call it good. Ginny didn't blame him.

But he'd asked for her number. Since she had no idea what Renee's number was, she'd explained her living situation, not wanting to seem ungrateful or rude. So, he'd given her his number and said he might see her around the beaches again. On Tuesday she'd caught a glimpse of him coming out of a surf shop, but being so embarrassed by her abysmal performance, she'd ducked behind a rack of colorful sandals until he'd turned the other direction.

"Oh, you'll get used to the water," said Renee cheerfully. "Besides, I think it's easier to get swamped on a boogie than a _real_ board." She gestured to the purple surfboard lying beside Harry.

"I don't know . . ."

"Come on," she wheedled, smiling beseechingly at Ginny. "If you're half as good at Quidditch as Harry let on at Hugo's, you'll be brill at this."

Ginny shot Harry a look, but his eyes were completely closed—too tightly. She frowned, remembering the party. Being surrounded by a team that reminded her of her brief stint on the Ashwinders, she had felt compelled to let Hugo and the others know just how good Harry was, and Harry, being embarrassed and pleased all at once, had launched into how Ginny had been an "exceptional, fearless Chaser," and a "rather good Seeker, if somewhat hesitant on the catch." He'd grinned cheekily at her then, his eyes and cheeks bright from boisterous camaraderie and cold butterbeer. She'd punched him lightly on the arm, also swept up in the jesting ambience. Then she'd started singing "Weasley Is Our King," to which Harry joined in, unharmonious but with much gusto; at some point, Harry had thrown his arm around her shoulders, clinking his butterbeer against hers jovially. As the song died and Hugo bellowed for an encore, Ginny had remembered herself and ducked out from under Harry's carelessly slung arm.

She'd kept her distance the rest of the night. Harry had been notably sober after that.

"Fine," Ginny sighed now on the beach, looking up from Harry to meet Renee's ready grin. As Renee snatched up the board, Ginny shed her tank-top and shorts and followed the older girl out to the surf.

"It's not breaking high today," said Renee when they reached the water's edge. Foam lapped their ankles as Renee pointed toward the group of surfers to the right. Not very many were out, and those who were sat atop their boards, gently bobbing over the swells rolling toward the shore. One young girl paddled out, turned her board, and rose up as one swell started to break. Ginny knew from her few times to the beach that this wave was rather small, but she still felt apprehensive as the girl rode in to shore.

"Let's just paddle out and relax," said Renee after a minute.

Together they headed out for the small waves but kept to the left, where the swells did not break but rolled gently by, only capping when they reached the shore. Straddling the board as Renee did, Ginny faced her host but gazed back toward the shore. She could just make out Harry reclining on his towel, apparently oblivious to the other beachgoers.

"He's in one of his moods," Renee said quietly, having followed Ginny's gaze. "Does he do that often?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Ginny said, smiling a little. They rose on a swell before dipping behind it.

"Oh yeah, usually it just lasts a day or so," said Renee. She licked her bottom lip and frowned thoughtfully, glancing at Ginny. "Usually he just watches TV or goes off somewhere for awhile. No use striking up a conversation or doing something fun with him then, but I try. He'll give in sometimes, probably just to shut me up." Gazing thoughtfully at Ginny, she said quietly, "I know he has nightmares. Never a good day after those."

Ginny bit her lip and looked down between her knees at the purple board. She did not feel comfortable discussing Harry or his troubles with Renee, but she couldn't help being curious about what Renee had observed.

"You know," Renee went on quietly, "sometimes I have half the mind to pop in at the library and read up on him."

Ginny looked up sharply, nearly upsetting her balance on a rising swell.

"Oh, I haven't," said Renee, once they were sliding down behind the wave. A corner of her mouth twitched feebly as she shrugged. "I could have asked someone to get information about Hay, because I remembered reading the name somewhere before I met him, but he made me swear not to broadcast anything because he didn't want people really knowing he's here. And when I _do_ get curious," she added, looking very serious, "I think about that night I woke up to him screaming bloody murder, and I decide that _don't_ want to know."

"Trust me," said Ginny somberly, "you don't."

"I thought so," Renee nodded. After a moment, she smiled again. "So, you like the Lucky Country, then?"

"Very much."

"Sorry for the mad week. Usually we don't have that many at once, but . . . It's over now. Hardly saw you around."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to be rude, I just like exploring on my own," Ginny said quickly.

"No worries, mate."

A moment of silence fell between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Ginny closed her eyes and tilted her head up, basking in the warm sunshine as they rode another swell. When she felt Renee's gaze on her again, she opened her eyes and raised her eyebrows.

"What?" she asked.

"Oh, nothing," shrugged Renee, smiling crookedly. "I was just thinking . . . Your cozzie really suits you. Tommy told me the other day."

"Yes, he told me too," Ginny muttered.

Renee arched an eyebrow. "Does he bother you?"

"Not really," she said. "I'm just not used to . . . handy blokes, you know? Most of the blokes I hung with at Hogwarts didn't flirt like that. And we had robes, not this," she added, gesturing at her darkened jade suit.

"I can keep him away, if you want," said Renee.

"You mean you haven't yet? I've heard Harry ask you twice about that." As soon as she said it, Ginny wished she hadn't.

Renee grinned like a cat seeing the bird's cage door had been left open. "Yes, he's been riding me about that. Not too fond of anyone cracking onto you, is he? Rather protective mate you've got there."

"He's practically my brother," Ginny said as convincingly and dismissively as she could. "In fact, you should have seen Ron when he found out about my first boyfriend."

"If Harry's like your brother," said Renee wryly, "you must believe in incest."

"_What?!_"

She had just a second to register this and react before a waved broke, sending them sprawling into the ocean. Then everything was darkness, roaring, and rolling until the wave passed and she found Up. When she surfaced, she found Renee several feet away, gripping the board and casting around for her. Ginny swam over to her, spitting revolting saltwater as she went.

"I can't believe you said that," she choked out, taking hold of the board.

Renee smirked. "I'm hoping that's a negative on the incest?"

"You're sick." Ginny shuddered.

"Hey, you're the one who said Harry's like a brother to you, and I've seen how he looks at you—especially in that cozzie—and if any of your rellies look at you like that . . ." Renee trailed off and winked at Ginny.

"Fine, he's not a brother to me," Ginny snapped. "Let's talk about something else, okay?"

"Right, right . . ." They remounted the surfboard and drifted in between the swells again. "But one of these days he's going to burst," said Renee offhandedly, "and what happens after that will _definitely_ be illegal for siblings."

From underneath half-closed lids, Harry watched Ginny and Renee make their way down the beach. He let out a little groan, silently cursing and blessing Renee for insisting Ginny wear that damn koala bikini. It served him right for giving in to her goading earlier. When she'd come home shortly after Mrs. Weasley's Howler, Renee had asked why he'd spent so much time in the shower (she'd been waiting to use the toilet), and also why Ginny was furiously scribbling a letter in her bikini. Harry had explained about the Howler, but refused to explain for his prolonged duration under cold water or why he refused to enter the kitchen with Ginny there. Unfortunately, Renee was quick on the uptake and had followed Harry into his room to tease him mercilessly until he admitted in an angry hiss that, yes, he very much liked Ginny's swimwear.

Speaking of swimwear . . . Now, on the beach, Harry was glad she'd opted to keep a shirt on until just a moment ago. Having her sitting beside him in that would have not helped his current mood, simply because he couldn't do anything about it.

_It's bad enough as it is without more . . . tension_, Harry thought darkly. His mood had progressively darkened through the week. The flat had been utter insanity, Ginny had been as absent and distant as possible, and he was growing rather weary of it.

It was like seventh year, except that he did not have Ron and Hermione or his impending face-off with Voldemort to distract his thoughts. Despite spending most of his life pretending that everything was 'fine,' Harry was growing rather tired of pretending things were just so between him and Ginny. _Actually, we're not pretending everything's fine, we've just gotten used to living when nothing is fine_.

Sighing, Harry rolled onto his stomach and propped his chin on his arms so he could gaze out at the ocean. After a moment, he spotted Ginny and Renee straddling the surfboard, completely in the wrong spot to surf. They looked to be deep in conversation.

Deeply nestled guilt rose in Harry again as he watched them. He knew exactly where things had gone wrong, exactly how he'd blown everything: when he'd lost control of his emotions and thought to hell with all this logical thinking. It ranked right up there with fifth year, but it had been _because_ of fifth year he'd thought like that in the first place. How could he possibly allow more-than-friends feelings overwhelm him when he had Voldemort to contend with? One: Voldemort could use Ginny against Harry as he had Sirius, and Two: Harry had a very good chance of being a dead man at any given time. Cho Chang hadn't exactly been an encouraging example of what can happen to a girl when her boyfriend is murdered by Voldemort. And, anyway, Ginny had given up on him, they'd been friends for a couple of years now. Surely he didn't want to blow that?

But he had. Whether it had been the actual act of kissing her or the lie afterwards that was the mistake, he couldn't entirely be sure, but he was banking on the lie. Why else would she have run off or demanded he look her in the eye and deny everything? But then she was captured—entirely his fault, because she would have never strayed from the castle—and when he next saw her, ready to confess everything, he'd been too late. She'd been beyond reach. When he tried to reach she'd pushed him away, and he'd let her.

_I shouldn't let her_, he'd told himself so many times. But he always did. Why should he push back when she so clearly did not want to be close to him again? He did not know all of what had happened to her while in Voldemort's captive, no one did, but somewhere in there she'd lost any feelings for him that she might have returned. Sometimes he wondered if she'd discovered his bluff, had realized he'd lied to her, and as such, had never forgiven him and, thus, was punishing him. But that was so unlike her, because Ginny was a very forgiving person.

Or maybe he just cut her too deep.

Over the last half-year of his time at Hogwarts, Harry had rather thought that not all of Ginny's change had to do with that terrible night. Obviously, her time in Malfoy Manor had deeply affected her. What the hell did they do to her? How could she survive the Chamber of Secrets as she had, but then Malfoy Manor could completely steal her spirit—soul—whatever you wanted to call it—out of her?

He'd brooded over this in his seventh year and again months after the initial darkness that consumed him after Voldemort's fall. His mentality and spirit worsened through those awful months, not at all helped by the physical exhaustion he'd forced upon himself in a vain hope to stop thinking and feeling. One night after a particularly nasty nightmare (after he'd finally fallen asleep), he'd looked into the mirror to find his face as pale, his eyes as dead, as Ginny's had been that day in the infirmary. He recalled how she'd thrown herself into her schoolwork, causing even Hermione to raise her eyebrows. Such busy work had not improved Ginny's paleness or tired, dull eyes. Then, as he thought over all of this, Remus, Ron, and Hermione's nagging, worried words began to sink in, and Harry started to realize he could not live like this.

Of course, listening to them also meant he had to face the worst questions. Who was he, really? If he'd been born into a prophecy and now fulfilled it, what was he beyond The Boy Who Lived? Did he serve any other purpose? How was he supposed to go on, normal, no longer The Boy Who Lived, when all those people had died for him and for freedom? He knew what everyone would say, because they always said it: "You are not responsible for the lives of others. They chose to fight. You-Know-Who chose to kill people. You lived, you saved us, now you can live your life, free of Voldemort, surrounded by those who survived with you and love you."

And while a very big part of Harry wanted to find this normalcy, finally push off the burden that had been The Boy Who Lived, another very deep part of him was frightened that the world, his friends and surrogate family, and he himself would discover that there really was nothing else to Harry Potter than a prophecy and a "saving people thing."

So, he'd agreed to Remus' little idea and set off to answer some of these questions. Although he was fairly settled with himself now—he knew he could never remove the guilt, pain, anger, or hate—he did not know if he could ever find the "normalcy" others spoke of, or if he could shake that damnable nobility that Hermione had put in such delicate terms. It was ingrained within him.

And it killed him that he, Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived and Vanquished the Dark Lord Forever, couldn't right the wrong he saw suddenly disappearing under a wave.

He sat up in alarm. Squinting in the sunlight, he searched the waves and saw Renee's purple board riding the break. A moment later, the board snapped backward as it came to the end of its tether to her ankle. Her head popped out of the water then. After another moment, Ginny reappeared and swam over to the board.

Letting the air whoosh out of him in relief, Harry lay back down and tried to think of something else; but he knew it was useless when he felt broody like this. At least when he thought about Ginny, he didn't have to think about Sirius, Percy's near death, Hagrid or Dumbledore, or the countless others who died so he, Harry, could try to figure out how to live without fear and death.

About ten minutes later, Harry heard the shuffling of sand and Renee's singsong voice. He propped himself up on his elbows to watch them, feeling both pain and pleasure at watching Ginny come closer.

"I could do with some pizza," announced Renee, flopping down onto her towel.

"How're the waves?" Harry asked, watching Ginny out of the corner of his eyes. She seemed keen on not looking at him as she stretched out on her towel to dry off. Her hair was tangled and spilled over the sand, causing the white grains to darken from the water running off. Sand also clumped at her ankles and dusted up her calves . . .

"Oh, they're cactus today," said Renee. She slapped him playfully on the arm. "Lucky us—Ginny and I had a nice little chat, didn't we, Gin?"

"Mmm," Ginny murmured, slipping sunglasses over her eyes. Judging by the tension of her jaw line, Harry had a feeling it hadn't exactly been lighthearted.

_I'll have to watch what I say to Renee_, he thought warily. _Not that I tell her much, but . . . she's got Hermione's cleverness mixed with Lavender and Parvati's girliness . . ._ Shaking his head a little to clear it, he frowned at Renee. "We can't have pizza yet. What about practice?"

"You're really too into this training thing," said Renee, tossing her tangled, wet hair over her shoulder. "It's just a pub league, Hay."

"Fine, have your pizza. I'll laugh when you chunder all over Hugo," said Harry lightly.

"Er—good point," she conceded. "Right, I reckon even _you_ can't knock back pizza tonight."

Harry nodded his ascent, then turned to glance once again at Ginny, who seemed to be mimicking his own pretend earlier. "You up for pizza, Gin?" he asked. What he really wanted to ask was whether or not she'd even be around tonight.

"Sure," she said, her slight shoulders giving a little shrug.

"I suppose we should be getting back then," Renee sighed as she turned Harry's wrist over to check his watch. "Are you coming too, Gin?"

"To the practice?"

Harry perked up at this. If Ginny came to the practice, then she definitely wouldn't have a chance to stay out all night. "Yeah," he said quickly, hoping he didn't sound too hopeful. Ginny seemed to balk every time he expressed anything less than mere indifference. "You could come and watch. We usually have a few friends on the ground, anyway."

Behind her reflecting shades, Harry couldn't discern what she was thinking, but her mouth was set a little crookedly as she mulled this over. Finally, she shrugged her shoulders again and said, "Sure, why not?"

"Bonzer!" Renee then began clearing up their little camp. Much to Harry's disappointment and relief, Ginny pulled on her t-shirt and shorts again, and soon they were Disapparating behind the boulder to the apartment.

Neither Harry nor Renee bothered to shower off the sand and saltwater before changing into their Quidditch gear. What was the point when all they'd do was take another one when they returned? Ginny detangled her hair and pulled it back into a loose ponytail and was ready when they were.

As Harry grabbed his Firebolt, he couldn't help but feel a wonderful, excited tightening in his stomach and his blood accelerated through his veins. _Quidditch_. He loved it. He didn't care that he was only playing on a mismatched side sponsored by a little dingy pub down the street. Quidditch was Quidditch and nothing that happened on the ground once he was in the air mattered.

"Oh, look at him fondle his broomstick," Renee giggled as she grabbed her own Nimbus 2500.

"Oh, rack off," Harry mumbled, feeling his cheeks heat and his mouth turn up despite himself. She always gave him crap about his eagerness to train.

They Apparated to Moore Park. Although the much larger and neighboring Centennial Park had the best pitches, the small local teams usually played in a little tucked away corner of Moore Park, right smack behind some very big Muggle sport and entertainment attractions. Luckily, it was easy for a Muggle to write off a misdirected wizard as someone from Fox Studios.

Harry and Renee were used to Apparating to their pitch and rarely accidentally found themselves around sets and studios. Ginny arrived without incident. Immediately Harry led them toward the pitch, his eagerness growing as they veered away from the pond with a bordering Muggle path. They had to zigzag a certain way between the trees for their own path to materialize over the parched grass. Harry knew it was going to be a sweltering practice before the sun fell, but if they started any later then they would have the glare of the setting sun to impede visibility. If this had been a professional team on a genuine league pitch, they would practice at night under several illumination spells that appeared as dark, evening shadows to any wandering Muggle eye.

_We should be grateful for the spells we have now_, he thought as they dipped drastically into a wide, grassy, oval pit that looked like the volcano pit he'd seen in Auckland, New Zealand. Bordering the pitch were tall, leafy trees that anchored the concealment wards that enabled players to reach proper Quidditch heights. Down in the pitch, Harry could see Hugo's massive shoulders and arms flexing as he swung his bat. Tiny Shelly looked to be in deep in conversation with Evan, the third Chaser, and Steve, the other Beater. Katherine, their Keeper was treating the Quaffle like a football, dribbling and bouncing it around with her feet and knees.

"You can sit anywhere on the slope or up by the trees," Harry told Ginny, turning toward her as Renee mounted her broom to travel down to the pitch. "The slope's rather steep, though."

Ginny looked at him, her face open with curiosity. "I'll find a spot. This place is really great!"

Harry smiled. He knew he should say something in reply, but he couldn't think of anything that didn't sound lame, and he could hear Hugo bellowing for him to get down to the pitch. So, feeling sheepish, he mounted his Firebolt and shot down to the pitch, his world briefly becoming nothing but the blur of grass and the wind whipping his cheeks.

As he neared the bottom of the pit, he reached out his fingers to brush the grass as his other hand pulled the Firebolt up. Exhilarated by the pure rush, he couldn't help but grin as he dismounted next to his teammates. Renee rolled her eyes at his dive and Shelly smiled cheerfully at him.

"Good mood, Harry?" she asked in her soft voice.

"Potter, you're the only bloke I know when in a good mood tries to cark it," said Evan lazily.

"Harry's got his girl up there," Renee said wickedly. "He's got to be a show pony."

Every face turned to him, grinning. Harry shot Renee a glowering look.

"Ginny?" rumbled Hugo, his teeth flashing whitely through his grizzly face.

"Where is she?" Evan asked, shading his eyes as he looked up at the surrounding trees. "The usual mob is on the far end—ah. Who can miss that hair?"

Despite himself, Harry followed Evan's pointing finger up to see Ginny settling herself about mid-pitch, her hair glinting vibrantly under the late afternoon sun. "Yeah," he said as casually as he could, "but I told you all she's just a mate from school."

"Just a mate?" Evan went on, raising a dark eyebrow disbelievingly. "_Just mates_ don't come down from England to watch you play backyard Quidditch."

"Well," said Harry, feeling very irritated, "there's nothing to watch since we're blathering around on the ground, is there?"

Evan grinned widely and winked. "Righto! Hugo, I reckon we better listen to him before he gets his dander up." As Hugo's laugh reverberated through the little group, Evan flashed Harry another grin and flipped his sunglasses on. Everyone followed his gesture, and then Hugo was barking out orders for them to mount their brooms and begin warm-up.

Wearing Muggle shades was a common practice amongst Australian Quidditch players during these afternoon practices and matches. Wizards modified them to aid their game any way they could. Armed with Sticking, Unbreakable, and Impervious charms, these glasses also were designed to dampen the brightness of the sun without creating more shadow on the pitch. Harry had seen Muggle lenses of lighter colors designed to do the same thing, but he rather thought seeing the world through shades of blue or pink would hinder his search for the Snitch.

He tapped his own glasses and the glare of the sun softened. Then he was in the air again, all his senses falling into the communion between broom and air as he began his warm-up routine. He knew he would be in the air for hours and would land feeling as if he'd only been up for a few minutes. When Hugo thought Harry had contributed all he could to the team drills and maneuvering, he set the Snitch free and Harry completely lost himself in the hunt. The authorized local league Snitches tended to be trickier and rather playful compared to the Hogwarts Standard . . .

"When's your first match?" Ginny asked Harry that evening as she reached for a slice of hamburger and mushroom pizza with extra cheese. Steam rose deliciously off the top. Hot pain spiked through her thumb and she dropped the piping hot slice on her plate and hissed. Sucking on her thumb, she raised an eyebrow at Harry, who hadn't answered but was watching her amusedly.

He'd been in an exceptionally good mood after practice. Ginny had to admit she'd felt rather exhilarated watching Harry dive spectacularly, daring gravity and magic as usual. She had to confess that the only downside on playing on the same team as Harry while at Hogwarts had been not being able to watch him play.

"Next Saturday," said Harry, snatching a slice of pepperoni. He wiped his hand on his jeans and then hopped up onto the island, ignoring the barstools that Ginny had only seen used by herself and the roaming backpackers. "I can't wait. If we get up to the top four, we get to play on the proper pitch in Centennial."

"Don't get your hopes up," said Renee from the fridge, where she was grabbing cans of soda. "I've played on the Dingoes for two years now, and we haven't made it to the top ten."

"But now you've got Harry," said Ginny, tossing him a knowing grin. Harry modestly ducked his head, but she saw the corners of his mouth pushing up his cheeks. "Hasn't he ever told you he's the youngest Seeker in a century? And has _never_ lost a game without near death as excuse."

"That was just at school," Harry said, shrugging. "It'll be different now."

"Harry, this isn't the pros," said Ginny. She hopped up onto the counter beside him, not wanting to be teased for sitting on a barstool and because the pizza boxes took up the rest of the counter. Sitting so close to him, her elbow accidentally brushing his, she breathed in his freshly showered, soapy scent. His hair was still wet . . .

"She's right," Renee said, tossing them each a can of soda. She grabbed a slice of each pizza and sat on the opposite counter, letting her heels bang loudly on the doors. "This is really just a bunch of dags who played in school but can't handle the pros."

"And besides," said Ginny, trying to ignore the heat of Harry's body so close to hers, "you're as brilliant as ever." Talking about Harry's Quidditch skills had never been a blushing subject for her. She blew on her hot pizza before carefully sinking her teeth into the melted cheese, hot sauce, and delicious crust.

"You think so?" said Harry, turning to look at her, a rather shy, embarrassed smile on his face.

"No, I honestly think you're the worst player I've ever seen," she said, rolling her eyes. "I don't know _what_ McGonagall was thinking when she took you on as Seeker. It's really tragic that Gryffindor couldn't have a decent Seeker like Slytherin—OW!"

Ginny let out a shriek as Harry's sharp jab nearly sent her sprawling to the floor. She dropped her plate and it crashed spectacularly into several pieces. Harry, however, didn't seem to notice as he fixed her with a steely glare, only the twitching corners of his mouth telling her that he knew she was joking.

"Stupid git," she muttered. Pointing her wand at the pieces, she said, "_Reparo!_ Oh, you ruined my slice! _Evanesco!_" Then she twirled her wand between her fingers and pointed it at Harry dangerously. "I can fix you right up, Potter, like I did Malfoy."

Harry laughed and batted her wand away. "Here, we have plenty left," he said, taking her newly restored plate and sliding another slice of pizza onto it.

Ginny grabbed her plate and stuck her tongue out at him. "You'll pay for that, you know," she said, opening her soda. "I plan to owl Fred and George. I had an idea while watching practice, actually. I can't believe I didn't think of it before."

"Oh, yeah? What's that?" Harry struggled with his stringy cheese for a moment.

"You know how I was on the Ashwinders for a bit?" When he nodded distractedly (he was still having issues with the abundance of cheese, and she had to try hard not to giggle at The Boy Done-In By Cheese), she went on, "Well, we've been in need of patronage, but it's sort of hard to get it in London. We're not a business side or anything. Anyway, it just occurred to me tonight that I should have asked Fred and George to sponsor us!"

"That's a brilliant idea," Harry said enthusiastically, his cheese problem temporarily in hand. He wiped the sauce off the corner of his mouth. "They'd probably do it, you know. Just don't let them try to improve your game with new broom inventions or anything."

"I just wish I'd thought of it sooner," Ginny said, pleased that Harry thought it was a good idea but somber because she knew exactly why she hadn't thought of it sooner. At that time, she'd been avoiding family, and asking Fred and George to sponsor her team would have definitely not been the way to go. Although she was no longer on the Ashwinders (she'd begged Alyson to let Alicia Spinnet know), Ginny had no doubt her brothers would jump at her request.

Thinking about her self-indicted estrangement brought her mood down and a silence fell over her and Harry, punctuated by the sound of chewing and slurping.

"Oi!" Renee suddenly exclaimed, jumping off her perch. "I forgot! Bugger it . . ." Muttering to herself, she disappeared into the living room, yelling "_Accio remote!_" The TV flicked on and Renee flopped down onto the couch.

Ginny raised her eyebrows at Harry, who rolled his eyes at his roommate's antics. She smiled a little and turned back to her pizza. When she shifted a bit (the counter didn't exactly come with cushions), her right arm brushed against Harry. She bit her lip and stopped squirming, trying to ignore the little bumps running up her arm.

"You know, Harry," she said, wanting to cover up the silence between them, "I've always wondered something."

"Hmm?" He seemed rather engrossed in his pizza.

"Why don't you try out for pro?"

Harry stopped in his feeding to stare at her. "You serious?"

She nodded. "I don't see why not. You're brilliant and you love it so much, you really should do it." At his still surprised look, she raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you've never thought about it."

"Well, I—I have," Harry confessed, his face falling a bit. "But you have to be really good and . . . and I just don't know if I—if I should." He said the last bit very quietly.

"What do you mean if you should?" she frowned, tilting her head to try and see his face as he ducked it.

"Nothing."

"It must be _something_." Ginny rolled her eyes, but then she frowned again as he gave a little, almost inaudible sigh. "Come on, Harry," she said quietly, instinctively giving him a gentle nudge. "What's wrong with playing Quidditch?"

Harry didn't respond immediately, but after a moment, he glanced at her, confliction obvious in his familiar, close face. "Well, it's . . . it's not really anything, is it? It's just a game in the air with balls and bats."

Her mouth fell open. If Ron had heard this, he would have Stunned Harry on the spot and carted him off to St. Mungo's insanity ward to keep Lockhart company. Harry seemed rather pained as he dropped his gaze to his pizza crust, all the glory from his flying session rolling off his slumped shoulders. She realized then what he was getting at and felt a dense tightness in her chest.

"Harry," she said quietly, "whenever Hermione said that Quidditch was just some silly, trivial game, she completely missed the point. Yes, it is a game, and yes, in the grand scheme of things, it's rather unimportant. But it can mean different things to different people. If you love something, can find joy in it, you should do it. Not just because you're Harry Potter and you above everyone deserve to do something fun, but because we all should. Otherwise, what's the bloody point?"

Harry finally looked up, his mouth agape, but Ginny wasn't done yet. "And _bullocks_ to doing something important and meaningful. What the bloody hell did you do the past eight years, Harry? I would think you've done enough services to society—to lives—to be feeling indebted and responsible. You might have wanted to be an Auror when you were at Hogwarts, but by what everyone said, you certainly weren't happy when you started your training.

"So, I say go play Quidditch. Charlie wasted his talent—that was fine, he has a dragon fetish that needs to be taken care of—but I'd hate to see you waste yours. You might have a passion for righting the wrong—which is better than scaly beasts spitting fire—but I think it's unhealthy for you right now. And, anyway, you can always go back to your Auror training if you decide you don't want to play Quidditch, but at least then you'll know and you can say you tried, and you can truly say 'HA!' to Voldemort's grave because he didn't take that from you, Harry—"

She stopped abruptly, realizing that she'd been rambling and her voice had gotten rather loud and angry. Harry's eyes were still wide and he was smiling at her, his shoulders trembling with barely contained laughter.

"Well," said Ginny, straightening her shoulders with dignity, "it's true. You need to play Quidditch."

His shoulders stopped trembling. "I needed to hear that," Harry said quietly, that small smile still in place, his green eyes bright. "Thank you."

Before she could stop him, he leaned toward her and kissed her temple. The mixing scent of pizza and soap overwhelmed her for an instant, but then he was leaning back, leaving the air to cool the warm, moist spot on her temple.

She couldn't breathe. For a wild, erratic moment, she envisioned herself grabbing him and demanding that he kiss her properly—but it vanished as reality jerked her back painfully. She felt every muscle in her body tense, every nerve attune itself to either the man sitting silently beside her or the spot his pizza-greased lips had just marked.

"You're welcome," her mouth said quietly, rather tremulously, without her consent. She thanked it silently for being sensible.

Beside her, Harry suddenly seemed to breathe again as well. He grabbed another slice of pizza and took a drink of his soda before saying, "I'll have to ask Ron if he can get me tryout information."

"He'll only get you the Canons," said Ginny, her mouth dutifully running itself while the rest of her was trying to sort itself out.

"That could be a problem," Harry agreed. "I've nothing against the Canons, but . . ." He shrugged. "Then again, I doubt I could make Puddlemere. There's also the Magpies, I guess. Definitely not the Falcons, Malfoy supported them . . ."

Ginny let him ramble, wishing she could latch onto the excitement building in his voice. Despite all of her walls, despite consistently pushing him away, she knew that—not even deep down—she'd wanted, in that brief moment of contact, for Harry to continue, to continue where he'd left off on Halloween two years ago . . .

" . . . Maybe I could get second string. That's not so bad. Seekers go down more than anyone else, and maybe after a couple of years I could make first . . ."

If she hadn't been so preoccupied with the confliction battling inside her, she would have laughed outright at how much Harry sounded like Ron just now. She'd never heard him babble so enthusiastically before, not even about Australia when she'd first gotten here.

"OI!" Alyson yelled from the living room. "Why don't you shut your fat gab, Potter? I'm trying to watch the telly!"

Harry couldn't fall asleep.

Stretched on his back, the sheets kicked off, he lay with his arms over his head as he listened to the distant sounds of the night. His room was dark with shadows from the city lights. Hedwig had left hours ago: not to hunt, but to send of his and Ginny's letters. She'd given him a reproachful look. Hedwig hated international mail; Harry had a feeling his owl found the international transport undignified.

Tonight's insomnia had little to do with brooding. A heaviness had lifted from his shoulders during the conversation over the pizza: he had a purpose now completely devoted to himself, something that Voldemort had absolutely nothing to do with. He'd wanted it but had been afraid to take it. This wasn't an action spurred by Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived—it was he, Harry, feeling boyish and excited over Quidditch and excelling at something not involving the fight against the Dark Arts.

And Ginny was right—if he decided he'd rather be an Auror than a professional Quidditch player, he still had the offer open from the Auror department. _It's not about deserving or not deserving, it's about what I want and what makes me happy. Otherwise, what's the bloody point?_

In the dark silence of his bedroom, Harry frowned, fastening on the dark, underlying confusion that had been kept in check by his newfound exhilaration. How strange to hear about happiness from someone who looked so miserable most of the time. He'd felt it envelope her after he'd . . . well, after he'd kissed her.

Harry groaned and closed his eyes over the memory. He'd known what he was doing, and it had felt _right_, damn it. It had taken every ounce of his control not to express his emotion more. Her hair had smelled of coconuts . . .

But . . . it had passed. She spoke and he took her signal, ready to cover the heightened tension between them as she did not meet his eye and grew pale as she picked at her pizza. After Renee yelled for him to shut up, Ginny had gone to watch the telly as well. Throughout the evening spent watching a movie, Renee kept looking between them and giving Harry meaningful looks. Finally, when Harry rather thought the air couldn't get any thicker, Ginny announced she was going to bed.

Harry had followed suit, not wanting to answer to Renee.

Now he lay awake, hours later, with a mind too busy to sleep, his body too aware that just on the other side of the wall, Ginny was shifting in her sleep.

Shifting in her sleep . . .

Harry frowned and leaned his head toward the wall. Muffled sounds floated through the small bit of wall between them, sounds not of a peaceful person turning over but more like a struggle . . . Something thumped against the wall, the sheets rustled, and he could hear muttering. At first her voice was incoherent, but as it grew louder, he could make out her hysterical words.

"_I didn't do it! It wasn't me! _IT WASN'T ME!"

She screamed.

Harry bolted out of bed. A loud thud followed by sobbing brought him to the door. He wrenched it open in time to see Ginny stumble into the bathroom. Her choked sobs and muttering echoed in the corridor before she slammed the door behind her. The light flicked on. Two seconds later he heard her retch violently.

"Wha—?" Renee yawned, opening her bedroom door.

Harry shook his head and went to the bathroom door. He grimaced as she retched again; he had planned on knocking, but considering that she was in no condition to answer . . .

Opening the door slowly, he cautiously entered the bathroom. "Ginny?" he said softly, wincing at the scene before him.

Her long, flaming hair hung over the sides of the toilet, obscuring her face as her body jerked painfully. He'd once seen Hermione sick after she'd seen a wizard's head get blown off by a curse. Harry, too sickened and shocked to do anything at that time, had stood by and watched as Ron pulled Hermione's wild hair back and rubbed her back soothingly while his own face looked white with horror.

"Ginny?" he said again, coming closer, finding this scene somehow more painful than when Hermione had lost it.

She said something he couldn't understand, gave a convulsive lurch, and he heard a sickening splash.

"It . . . it wasn't me," she cried, her shoulders shaking. "But it was—it _was_!"

"Sssh, it's okay," Harry said quietly, kneeling down beside her. The pungent aroma hit his nose, but he tried to breathe through his mouth and not look disgusted. "It was just a nightmare, Ginny."

She sobbed harder but did not vomit again. Harry swallowed, and then, rather awkwardly, he followed Ron's example and reached out, scooping her long, thick hair away from her face like a curtain. It was damp and tangled from sweat, but he gathered it as gently as he could and held it back, letting his wrist rest between her shoulder blades so he wouldn't accidentally jerk and pull any out. Her skin was hot and moist under his hand, and he could feel her muscles twitch as she sobbed brokenly.

Unable to hide from him, she lifted her red, tear-streaked face.

Harry quickly used his other arm to grab some tissue from the box by the sink. "Here," he said, handing her a bunch.

Wordlessly, she accepted them and wiped the evidence off her lips. When she tossed the used tissue into the toilet, Harry flushed the contents. Ginny shut her eyes tightly, her lips gray and trembling.

"Do you want a drink of water?" asked Harry.

She nodded and sat back. Harry reluctantly let go of her hair as she rested her head against the wall. He turned to get some water, but Renee stood in the threshold holding out a glass, her brow furrowed with concern.

"Thanks," he said, taking it and settling back down beside Ginny. "Here."

She opened her bloodshot, dull eyes and took the glass in her shaking hands. It spilled over and Harry quickly held onto it, alarmed as tears began to gather on her bottom lashes. Under his hands, hers continued to tremble. _Merlin, please don't cry! I don't know how to handle crying girls . . ._

But her tears did not spill down her cheeks again. Ginny took a deep, shuddering breath and pulled the glass toward her. Harry let go, watching as the glass shook but did not spill again. She drank thirstily, the hollow of her neck rising and falling with every swallow.

"Is she all right?" Renee whispered, coming in closer.

"Yeah," said Harry, though he did not know. "She had a nightmare." Although he'd woken up screaming before, he had never actually vomited from a nightmare.

When Ginny drained the glass, she let out a moan as her head thumped back against the wall. Her entire body seemed to collapse in exhaustion. The glass slipped from her fingers, but Harry caught it before it hit the floor. Renee wordlessly took it.

"A damp cloth helps," she said quietly before leaving for the kitchen.

Harry jumped up and found a washcloth. When he'd squeezed the excess water out of it, he folded it up and knelt beside Ginny again. Her eyes fluttered and her head rolled to the side. Feeling inadequate but wanting to do something helpful, he gently pressed the cloth against her forehead. She jerked slightly, but some of the tension in her face eased. He shifted so that his shoulder rested against the wall as he faced her, keeping the cloth in place.

"I killed Macnair, you know," she said dully, her voice scratchy.

Harry stared at her slack, tired face. She opened her eyes and stared deadly over his shoulder.

"What . . ." he swallowed. "What do you mean?"

"I killed him. I told Nagini to bite him." She turned toward him then, her head rolling along the wall, her mouth turned up coldly, lifelessly. "I'm a murderer, Harry."

And then her face caved in, her tears spilling over. Harry, in his shock, thought she might start convulsing again, but she just hung her head as tears fell into her lap.

"No, Ginny," he said urgently, her words echoing through his head. "Macnair was a Death Eater. _He_ murdered innocent people. You—this was when you were captured, right?" His chest twisted viciously. She nodded slightly, hiding again behind her mane. "Obviously, this was self-defense—I would have done the same—"

"No, Harry," she whispered, lifting her face to gaze glassily at him. "You only ever killed Voldemort, and that was because you had to. I—I did because I was—I-I—"

But whatever it was, she couldn't say. Harry felt anger boiling in him. He knew what the Death Eaters had been capable of, what they'd done to their victims. The Cruciatus Curse may have been their specialty, but he knew that they'd taken pleasure in using Muggle violence to humiliate and harm their victims.

"What did he do to you, Ginny?" he asked tightly, dropping the washcloth. "What did that bastard—"

"Nothing. Macnair did nothing to me. He guarded me."

Harry's mouth went dry at her words. She had not killed Macnair to protect herself from violation and pain. But surely—Madam Pomfrey had said her body had been ravaged by repeated Cruciatus—she had to have been pushed to the point of murder . . .

"I'm a killer," she said again, disgust and hate strengthening her broken voice.

"No, no you're not," Harry said vehemently. "Ginny—look at me—" When she didn't comply, he reached out and cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes remained lowered, but he went with what he had. "Listen—Macnair was a Death Eater. _He_ was a killer. He showed no remorse. Remember, Buckbeak? He _liked_ murder, Ginny, he was an executioner for the Ministry and Voldemort. You're not a killer. It's hurting you. If you were a killer, you wouldn't be losing that pizza in the toilet, you wouldn't be crying.

"Do you hear me? You're—not—a—killer."

She looked up at him through glazed eyes and did not nod.

Harry dropped his hand, admitting defeat. He hated it. "My God—" he swore and wrapped his arms around her small frame, pulling her tightly against his chest, knowing no other way to express his anger and despair. Only then did he remember that he wasn't wearing a t-shirt. Still he held on, her breath irregular on his neck, cursing Voldemort's memory.

"Harry," Ginny said weakly after a minute, "you're hurting me."

Quickly, he eased his hold, unwilling to let go quite yet. She felt so frail and tight, as if she'd shatter at any moment.

"Harry, _please_," she pleaded, sounding as if she were going to break again. "You're hurting me."

"I'm barely—"

"I know," she whispered, sliding back from him, his hands slipping from around her. She lifted her eyes to him; they were dark with pain. "It still hurts . . ."

"_What_ does?" he asked. Unable to let her go yet, he touched her cheek, sliding his hand along her wet face. She flinched at his touch and her lips moved soundlessly. _Tell her!_ "Am I hurting you?" he whispered, feeling icy hot guilt fill his stomach and shoot up through his chest to his throat.

Nodding, she closed her eyes.

_Tell her now!_

He could be hurting her worse for this, but he did not know what else to do, and he didn't think he could take the strain much longer. Not after tonight, not after seeing her like this, holding her like this . . .

"I'm sorry, Ginny," he whispered throatily.

"Harry—"

"No!" He dropped his head, pressing his forehead against hers. The salty scent of her tears mixed with sweat, skin, and shampoo, filling his shallow breaths. "No, Ginny," he said firmly, still managing only a low voice. "I'm saying it."

"_Please_—"

"I lied to you," he plunged on, her tiny breaths coming quick against his left cheek as he spoke into her right ear, his hand behind her neck, holding her against him. He had to say it. "I lied to you. I thought I could protect you. I know now I can't. I'm so sorry, Ginny. I never wanted to hurt you, but I did. I'm sorry."

He stopped, because he knew no other way to say it. She had to know what he meant. "Ginny?" he whispered, when he could not feel her breath against his cheek.

She sucked in a shallow, shaky breath and he lifted his head away to see her. Her lips were pressed tightly together, her face completely white under her freckles. If anything, she looked even worse than a moment before . . .

"I know," she said forcefully, not looking at him. "I figured that out. But, Harry," and now she turned to him, her face cold, her eyes rigid, "I meant what I said. We—we can't be anything more than . . . more than friends."

He might as well have been punched in the gut. It would have hurt him less.

Harry dropped his hand and his back hit the toilet.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Ginny said softly.

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why?" he bit out, looking at her sharply. "Why can't we—you know—"

Ginny sighed heavily and closed her eyes and he could almost see her closing in on herself. "I can't tell you. It just hurts too much." She sounded too tired to hold even a note of pain or remorse in her voice.

Feeling much the same way, too exhausted to store any more emotion, Harry raked his hair and found the mind to say, "Do you need any more water?"

She stared at him for a long moment, and then the tiniest, merest stretch of her lips told Harry that if they'd been in slightly better conditions, she would have smiled. "That would be nice," she said tiredly. Before Harry could jump up to get it, she started to push off the floor. He quickly grabbed her elbow to help. She seemed too tired to protest.

"I'm fine," said Ginny, once she was standing. "Really." But she didn't even try to smile.

Harry let go and she started, somewhat weakly, toward the door. He followed, disturbed and wretched from what had unfolded on the cold floor.

Renee was sitting on a barstool finishing off a pint of mint and chip ice cream. She looked at Harry questioningly, but he just shook his head.

"I can run and get some more, if you want," she offered, tipping the empty container toward them.

"No, but thanks," said Ginny.

She headed for the fridge and Harry slid onto a barstool across from Renee. He buried his face in his hands, pushed his palms into his eyes, and then terrorized his hair once more. He had a brief flash of his father messing up his hair for his mother . . . but James did it to impress; Harry did it out of frustration.

"Are you all right?" Renee mouthed worriedly.

Harry shook his head. He just wanted to go bed. Not that he could sleep after this . . .

"Renee?" said Ginny from the sink where she was putting her glass. "Is it all right if I watch the telly for awhile?"

"Sure," said Renee, stifling a yawn. "I sleep like a cactus. In fact, I think I'll go . . ." She rose from her seat, casting Harry a 'we'll-talk-in-the-morning' look.

Harry watched her leave, wondering helplessly over what he should do now. He didn't want to look at Ginny, didn't want to bear the strain that had not eased between them with his confession, but neither did he feel right or safe in leaving her alone.

"Harry?" she said tentatively. "You can . . . you can watch too, if you want." When he glanced at her, she bit her lip and faced the floor. "I'd rather not be alone. It's still a strange place . . ."

"Yeah. All right."

They sat on different wings of the lounge and channel flipped. Harry felt his eyes grow heavy as he stared at the meaningless images flashing across the screen. Eventually he surrendered to his drowsiness and laid down, his head on the puffy, comfortable arm rest and his feet stretching to the corner. He tried to stay awake as Ginny showed no signs of sleep, sitting up with her legs folded under her, the TV reflecting in her glazed eyes. But exhaustion and his emotional vacuum overtook him, and soon he was lost in blissful darkness . . .

_And now for another Aussie vocab lesson:_

Piker – someone who has no fun

Sook – somebody soft

Crack onto (someone) – hit on someone

Knock back – refuse

Cark it – to die


	17. Tourniquet

Chapter Seventeen

"_Tourniquet"_

Dark, painful dreams plagued his sleep until the comforting, familiar sounds of Renee's morning routine roused Harry from his world of deep gray. He lay still for several minutes, pending thought, until he heard the front door close softly behind his roommate.

Shifting uncomfortably on the couch, Harry opened his eyes to find the living room bathed in a lighter cloak of gray. Wan morning light cast vague, foggy shadows over the slumped, curled figure with her head burrowed in the corner. Harry rubbed a fist into each eye. Massaging the back of his sore neck, he leaned down to the floor and found his glasses.

With his renewed ocular perception, the vagueness of the morning slipped bleakly, sharply into focus. Harry bit back a groan and rubbed absently at his scar. He didn't feel as if he'd slept at all, but he knew he'd gotten more sleep than Ginny. Dropping his hand, he studied her, relieved that she was still asleep.

She looked as if she'd fallen over; her body was folded and curved at slightly uncomfortable, accidental angles. One thin, worn strap of the old sundress Renee had given her slipped off her shoulder, revealing a tan line Harry found rather appealing before it ducked under the neckline. With her left leg curled under her body, she'd stretched out her right leg and buried her foot between the cushions. Her face was completely obscured by tangled red hair and couch cushions.

Watching her made Harry realize he did not want to be around when she woke up. Nor did he think he could return to his room to catch up on lost sleep. He had to get _out_.

Moving silently as he could, Harry dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, grabbed his Firebolt, and left the apartment. He paused just outside the door, wondering for a second if he _should_ be there when Ginny woke up. She had not wanted to be alone last night, so what if she woke up to an empty apartment? Renee's absence would be normal, but Harry was almost always there in the morning, unless he slept in later. Would she take that as a signal of some sort?

"Guh!" Harry told the number 6 on his door.

He definitely needed to get out of the house.

Glancing surreptitiously around for Muggles and finding no one, Harry cast a Disillusionment Charm on his Firebolt. Then he quickly hurried down the stairs and made his way down the street to his usual Apparating point behind some large hedges surrounding a rusting, graffiti-covered sculpture of a surfing bunyip. With a sharp crack, he reappeared on a cliff overlooking a small, inhospitable cove between Bronte and Coogee.

Cold, salty wind whipped across the dark, slate surface of the water. Roaring waves crashed into the rock, spraying chilly foam over the hedge growing horizontal from the cliff edge. Harry shivered in his t-shirt as he blinked against the bleary morning sea. He could not recall such a cold day in Australia. The sun had not begun to peek over the horizon, or if it had, the uncharacteristic sheet of smooth, steely clouds obscured it.

Although metaphorical weather slightly unnerved him, Harry did appreciate the change in perfect weather. Something comforting and indulging could be found in weather that matched the wretchedness consuming him.

Taking a deep, cool breath, Harry Disillusioned himself as well and mounted his broom.

He kicked off fiercely and launched high into the air, soaring higher and higher until the large boulders breaking the water looked like pebbles. Then he pointed his broom vertically and dived.

The last vestiges of sleep and thought vanished as adrenaline rushed through him like the wind whistling past his ears. Wind buffeted him, trying to toss him off his nearly vertical path to the disgruntled sea, but he held fast. Closer and closer . . . the boulders were rocks, now they were boulders, he could feel the mounting, crashing waves—

He pulled up between two swells, his toes skimming the water before he rose over the wave as it capped on the uneven ocean floor. Again he rose high into the air only to come racing down faster than gravity would take him. Moist air soaked through his thin t-shirt, chilling his skin with goosebumps, but he didn't notice. He rode over the breaking waves, dipped between the crests, raced them to the cliffs, daring them to overtake him . . .

The gray sky had lightened a few shades when Harry eased into a gentle glide ten feet over the waves. Breathless, his heart pounding in his ears over the wind, he pushed wet hair out of his eyes and felt the adrenalin drain away. Cold, chilly drops slid down his back, trailing the despondency falling over him again.

Closing his eyes, Harry recalled last night in detail. The agony in Ginny's body and face, how her eyes became dull and dead . . . Even now he could feel her trembling, clammy body crushed against his, not at all like his fantasies. He'd been terrified—he was _still_ terrified. The Ginny from last night had been the same Ginny he'd found in the Chamber of Secrets, ravaged and broken by Tom Riddle.

Harry gripped his broomstick tightly, feeling anger and hate boil hotly under the iciness wrapping around him. He wanted to stab that damnable diary again and again; he could not, however, bear again to witness the death of Lucius Malfoy or Voldemort—his hate was not strong enough to want to see that again, even if he relived it in his dreams. Nor did he ever want to see Ginny so dead and cold, her confessing mouth the only sign of life in her.

"_I killed Macnair."_

She'd been willing Harry to despise her for it, as she so obviously despised herself, but Harry rather thought this ridiculous. There had to be more behind the defeat in her voice, the self-loathing passing through her pale, gray lips. He'd so desperately wanted to redirect her anger and pain towards him when he had seen his own guilt reflecting in her glassy, bloodshot eyes.

It felt, even now, as if he'd done nothing. Actually, it felt worse, and Harry had not imagined he could feel even more terrible about what he'd done in seventh year. How could he feel better when Ginny looked to be in pure agony over his words? What the hell did she mean they couldn't be more than friends? Why couldn't she bloody tell him the bloody reason why they bloody couldn't? If it was a simple matter of I-don't-like-you-like-that or I-hate-your-guts-you-big-fat-liar, why couldn't she say it? Certainly a definitive reason would be better than more tears.

"_One person can't feel all that at once," _Ron had said in fifth year. _"They'd explode_._"_

"_I'm_ going to explode," Harry muttered, his words lost on the wind. He opened his eyes to find that he'd drifted nearly a mile away from his last point. Turning north again, he paralleled the shoreline, half-heartedly dipping between the waves.

As he rounded an outcropping sheltering a cove, he saw a familiar figure rise up on a cresting wave, her wild, auburn locks tangled, wet, and black. The moment he saw her, Harry felt a little warmth thaw the bitter cold entombing him. He recognized this feeling and smiled a little; he felt this way when he saw Ron and Hermione after the summer holidays and, most recently, when they'd met him in London a few weeks ago.

Keeping low but just above the waves, Harry sped toward Renee. He moved over the crest of her wave and spotted the tag sticking out of her small, black t-shirt. Moving expertly as if it were a Snitch, he swooped down and waited just long enough for her to come out of the wave's under-curl before tugging sharply on her tag.

She let out a startled cry, wobbling precariously on the surfboard. Harry patted her head and shot past her toward the tiny beach nestled into the small, vacant cove.

When he landed, he tapped his wand to his head and felt the familiar warm trickle returning him to his normal state. Then he settled onto the beach, pushed his toes into the cool sand, brushed hair out of his eyes, and rested his elbows on his knees to observe Renee's very rude hand gesture when she spotted him. Satisfied that he'd gotten her meaning, she paddled back out for the next wave.

He watched her surf, daring the waves as he had done on broomstick. He needed to figure out what he was going to do now. The talk over the pizza had buoyed him, had felt like old times in the common and locker rooms where Ginny had been all enthusiasm and passion about trivial and important things. He wanted that back.

Could he get that back? Should he even try? Something told him that Ginny could never again be the same Ginny at fifteen and sixteen, just as he could never return to the fifteen or sixteen-year-old Harry. War changed people. Hell, someone had told him that _life_ changed people. Still, he couldn't quite accept the shattered Ginny he'd seen last night. It'd be surrendering to Voldemort, tossing down Godric Gryffindor's sword and saying, "All right, you win."

No bloody way would he ever do that.

Yet he could not fathom what he was supposed to do. Harry was still lost in this train of thought when Renee dragged her surfboard up the tiny beach to him.

Wordlessly, she leant the board against a rock and sat down beside Harry and buried her toes in the sand.

"Hey," she said quietly, her eyes toward the sea.

"Hey," Harry mumbled, dropping a hand off his knees to run his fingers through the sand.

Renee turned to look at him, her mouth uncharacteristically frowning. "I hate it when you look like that, Harry," she said softly. "Other people can look sad, and I go 'oh, look, he's sad, poor him,' but you always look like the world's lost or something."

"Sorry," said Harry, feeling rather embarrassed by this.

"Don't be." Renee dropped her gaze to where his hand was playing with the sand. Then she sighed and put an arm around his shoulders.

Harry's shoulders sagged under the gesture and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. As odd as it sounded even to his own mind, Harry liked it when Renee touched him. Something about it was normal, friendly, and thoughtless. Having grown up with the cruel Dursleys, he hadn't really experienced human physical contact that wasn't harsh or cold. The general smacking around in the locker rooms or dormitory between the Gryffindor boys lacked something, although he had not realized it until sixth year. By then he'd been used to cringing whenever Hermione touched him—she was always so emotional and smothering when she hugged him. He didn't like having someone else's feelings pushed upon his own and he had no idea how to give anything back if he'd wanted to. But sometime in sixth year, Ginny had started nudging him with her elbow, tapping him on the shoulder, playfully smacking his hand away from her Chocolate Frogs, and he'd discovered what a friendly, undemanding feminine touch could do.

Of course, when you get closer and have certain more-than-friendly feelings toward a female friend, the touch could be given more thought, more emotion, and you wanted it to mean more.

Renee's touch, however, did not affect him as Ginny's did. He felt immense gratitude for her arm draped carelessly around his shoulders, silently supporting him without asking for anything back. Ginny had been like that once . . .

"I don't know what to do," he sighed, turning to Renee. "I don't even know what's going on really."

"She's hurting."

"I know that. Merlin, I know that." Grabbing a fistful of sand, he watched it sift between his fingers. "I hurt her. _He_ hurt her. But I don't know how the hell she got like that, and she damn well won't tell me." He spoke quietly but he noticed Renee wince slightly at the anger in his voice.

She sighed a little, the motion carrying through her arm. "Who's this other bloke? The _'he'_ that hurt her?"

"Voldemort." Harry spat the name out with every bit of hate he felt in his cold, soaked body. He knew it wasn't just the wind rushing through his wet shirt that froze his chest.

"What sort of name is that?" asked Renee bewilderedly.

Harry snorted. It felt very weird to have someone not flinch at that name. "It's an acronym for Tom Marvolo Riddle."

"_Mar_volo?"

"Yeah. I know. I might have laughed if he'd told me in a slightly different situation." _If Ginny hadn't been dying on the Chamber floor_ . . . He stared broodingly out at the dull steel gray of the waves. "I really don't want to talk about it."

"No worries," said Renee quietly. She pulled her arm around his neck to bring his head closer and dropped a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek. "I didn't want to listen to your sob story, anyway."

"Oh, shut up," Harry muttered, tossing sand at her. A smirk twitched his lips as she feigned choking on sand. "Cheeky monkey."

"At least I'm not a pale, broody Pommy," she retorted, sticking out her sand-less tongue.

"I'm not pale! Not anymore, anyway."

"You're no bronze surfie, either."

"Would you like more sand in your face?"

They tossed playful insults and threats to each other for a few minutes, but then Renee's giggles died as Harry's somber mood wouldn't quite lift. They sat in silence for a while. Harry battled between keeping to the mutual silence and confessing at least a little bit of what was on his mind. He would never unload completely on Renee—he didn't even think he could confess everything to Ron and Hermione—or betray Ginny's past to her, but he needed a hint in _some_ direction.

"Nay?" he said hesitantly.

"Yeah?" She had her head on her knees, her hands on her ankles. Everything about her large, wide eyes and curious, soft face spoke of open earnestness.

"I . . ." Harry licked his lips, took a deep breath, and—

—he couldn't do it. Renee, a friend, was there—he could trust her because she had not betrayed him in anything—but he couldn't do it. If he just told her how he'd lied to Ginny and that he'd confessed it last night to no definitive prevalence or condemnation, he'd have to explain _why_ he'd done so, _why_ he'd been driven to it, _why_ he and Ginny had fallen out . . . The "bog standard" as Renee called it would not justify or explain what had happened to Harry and his friends, and Harry knew that if he started to unleash one thing, he may not be able to stop the rest, because Ron was definitely right: you can't feel that much before you explode.

And Renee did not deserve to be caught in that blast; Harry could not stand to have this normal, casual relationship tainted by the war. He wanted her just like this: friendly, joking and without expectation. Without fear or sadness for him.

"Yes, Harry?" she asked when his mouth remained soundlessly open.

"I—I'm just glad you let me room with you," he said lamely, looking away.

A full second went by before Renee said sweetly, "Ah, shucks, Hay, I'm getting all warm and fuzzy inside."

Harry grunted for lack of the mentality to respond. Renee, however, seemed to brush over this and stood up, dusting sand off her legs and swimsuit bottoms.

"Come on," she said. "It's too cold out here, you'd think it was June or something. Want to come to the markie with me? We're a bit low on food. We can banish the board and broom."

Although the prospect of grocery shopping did not appeal to Harry, he definitely was not ready to return to the apartment.

As his morning custom, Rum pawed at Ginny's hair until she grudgingly obeyed his feline command. She groaned from physical and emotional pain that came with consciousness and briefly considered hexing the tiny cat until he pushed against her stomach, purring rapturously. Grateful for his comfort, she gathered him in her arms and buried her face in his fur. His pleasure reverberated through her head, sounding more like a fierce lion than a scrawny runt.

"I want to be a cat," she muttered wistfully into Rum's belly. He batted at her hair. _It would be great until I had to lick myself_, Ginny reasoned wryly as she extricated herself from Rum, who was now trying to eat her hair.

Looking around her, Ginny realized two things very quickly: that Harry was no longer asleep on the couch, and that the flat felt very empty. Relief and trepidation twisted her stomach. She chewed on her bottom lip, wishing desperately that she could sort out her thoughts and emotions right now.

Last night had been bad.

To say the very least.

Macnair's death ranked right up top with her worst nightmares. She could never suppress or conquer the hysteria that had risen inside her at that moment she'd ordered Voldemort's pet snake to kill the Death Eater. His body always fell in slow motion; the feral, vengeful urge to kill always recoiled into sickening realization and utter shame. Her throat and ears ached from her frenzied, panicked screams of horror and denial as she was sedated and then floated over her victim to be tortured and shamed by Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

That instance of madness, possession, and murder would never leave her.

"No," she croaked, beginning to tremble. "Nononono . . ."

Rum yowled and glared at her as she leapt up from the couch, muttering frantically as she raced to the bathroom. Shaking uncontrollably, she splashed cold water onto her face and drank great gulps until her stomach ached from the shock of it. Her echoing screams and the cold November frost faded into Harry muttering pain-riddled words in her ear and the sheltering, possessive, painful feel of his arms around her. Ginny bit painfully down on her wrist to keep from screaming outright.

Why hadn't he buggered off last night? He should have pushed her away disdainfully and demanded that she leave at once. Harry should have been sickened by her confession that she'd killed Macnair in cold blood, that she had been reduced to such a weak, pathetic state.

But of course not. Harry felt guilty. He thought it was _his_ fault. It was just like Harry Potter to take the blame for her own murder, her betrayal. He thought it was his kiss, his lie that hurt her, that had brought her to Voldemort's mercy. So, he would not hate her for what she did, because it was _his_ fault it all happened.

"Damn you, Harry," she whispered, releasing her wrist. Her scream was safely locked away. "You wouldn't feel guilty if you _knew_." The bite marks on her wrist were deep and blood was filling the cavities of torn skin. She watched the thick, crimson droplets stretch into ribbons, both disgusted and fascinated by her physical self-affliction.

Then she blinked.

Macnair's bite had looked like this . . .

Shuddering violently, she pushed her wrist under the facet, rinsing away her blood. Bile rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down. When the wound was clean, she found some bandage under the sink and wrapped up her wrist.

Somehow, the act of dressing her injury calmed Ginny. After returning the gauze and tape to its cupboard, she scrubbed her face until it felt raw and tender, but avoided looking in the mirror. She brushed her teeth and went to the kitchen.

The silence of the apartment unnerved her. Renee was usually at the beach by this time, but Harry would be making breakfast or watching the TV if he wasn't still asleep. Part of her knew his absence could mean anything—he could be _buying_ breakfast, since the fridge and cupboards were low—but she knew he didn't want to be around her.

_This is good_, she tried to tell herself_. If he doesn't want to be around me, then I have no conflict. Things are better this way and as they should be. Harry can move on to better things, like Quidditch and Renee, and I can just . . ._

Leave.

She should leave. How could she possibly think about staying after last night? She was nothing but a messed-up, insane burden on Harry and Renee, and surely they wouldn't want to accommodate her after that revolting display of hysteria. Even if Harry was still focused on his own undeserved guilt, Ginny knew she couldn't stand his caring or his guilt anymore.

"Bugger it," she swore through clenched teeth.

Then she shrieked and hit her knee on a barstool, overturning it.

Two loud cracks had sounded just in front of her and a purple surfboard had dropped onto the island counter, followed immediately by Harry's Firebolt.

Moaning and nursing her knee, Ginny frowned at the surfboard and broomstick. If Harry and Renee had banished these back here, then that meant they probably weren't on their way home. A ridiculous, unjustified jealousy spiked through her before she firmly repressed it. Harry could shag Renee all for the better, if it meant he'd gotten over whatever guilt or feelings he might have had last night, right?

It did not make her feel any better.

Rum jumped onto the counter to inspect his mistress and master's items, his long tail twitching back and forth.

"Right," said Ginny. "I better be off, then."

Overwhelming sadness swept over her as she turned towards the bedrooms.

She didn't want to leave.

_But I have to_, she told herself. Her knee ached terribly and she could feel it stiffening from swelling. _Harry has a good thing going here, I can't ruin it for him. He has to be the one who gets past the war. I can't help him with that._

A trembling began in her bones as it had two years ago on her journey from the numbing world of the infirmary to the Great Hall. Muscles tensed as she futilely tried to stop it. She limped to the stereo and found the Oasis CD Joe had burned her. Angsty acoustic and regretful words filled her ears.

No use in listening to something upbeat. She turned away and went to her tiny room. Tears would not come even if she allowed them.

Rum came to watch her pack after she'd changed into her black skirt and a long-sleeved, gray shirt. The process of sorting through her clothes and Renee's was slow; her limbs moved tiredly, as if echoing the doubt in her mind. She was numb and ragged, exhausted and wretched.

An hour may have passed, but maybe it was only fifteen, when the front door opened.

Ginny drew a deep breath and continued folding her cloak. _I'm leaving, I'm leaving, I'm leaving. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry._

Whispers rustled over the crackle of grocery bags. More whispers and then approaching footsteps.

_No, please, no! Just go past, please just go past—_

"Ginny?" said Harry quietly, hesitantly from behind her.

She could sense him in the threshold, raising the hair on the back of her neck.

"You're . . . you're leaving?" he said disbelievingly, taking a step closer.

"I . . ." The shaking was more noticeable now. She stiffened. "I—I don't know," she muttered. _What the hell happened to your determination, Ginevra Weasley?_

"What? Why?"

"What which and why which?" said Ginny, shoving her cloak into her travel bag. She hated the tired hopelessness in Harry's voice and definitely did not want to see it on his face.

"What do you mean by 'I don't know' and why are you leaving?"

Whirling around angrily, she nearly stumbled into him. She put her arms out against his chest to catch herself.

"I don't—" she started to say, but his hand clasped tightly around her wrist.

"Ginny?" Harry hissed. "What the _hell_ is this?"

Ginny had squeezed her eyes shut in pain, but she opened them and nearly cried out at the utter horror affixed on his face. "I—"

"Wait—" He turned and shut the closet door behind him, his hand still fastened around her bandaged wrist poking out from her sleeve. Ginny jumped at the closing door, fear and shame crashing down on her as she found herself once again completely enclosed and trapped.

"Harry, let me go," she pleaded.

"No." Harry was staring narrowly at her, his eyes dark and frightened. "Not until you tell me what this is," he said, tugging on her wrist.

"It—it's nothing," Ginny lied, not looking at him. Blood rushed to her face and the walls seemed to close in. Harry was another wall, a closer wall, wall that could do more than just entomb her . . .

"Ginny," said Harry hoarsely, "did you—did you try—try to—"

"No! Would you please let go?"

Harry dropped her hand, but he still stared intently at her. Ginny quickly clutched it to her chest and noticed that blood had seeped through the gauze. _That's what I get for not remembering to heal it first_.

"You didn't try to—you know—"

"No," Ginny spat, shaking and taking a step back. Much further and she would hit the wall . . . She didn't want to feel the wall . . .

Harry raked his hair in obvious frustration and confusion. Looking at him now from under her ducked head, she remembered the burning look in his eyes last night, how he'd snatched her up as if determined to keep her from falling apart. Now, cornered, she feared he'd do it again.

"Ginny," said Harry helplessly, "then what—no." He shook his head and gazed at her half-packed things. "Why are you leaving?" When she didn't answer, he closed the space between them and she knew she didn't have the mental or physical strength to push him away.

His fingers closed gently around her bandaged wrist. "I don't want you to leave, Ginny," he whispered.

_I hate you! _she wanted to scream. _Why do you have to be so obvious and open? Why can't you just go back to bottling it all up and hiding it like before? Why can't you pretend like me? Then we can part and never speak of this again._

"Ginny?" said Harry when she remained silently and staring down at her feet, mentally cursing him. He lifted her chin, but she jerked her head back.

"I'm going for a walk," she said curtly.

"Please don't leave—"

"I can't walk out of Australia, Harry."

"So, you're not leaving?"

"I honestly don't know." Ginny pressed her hands into her face, then pushed them through her hair, still refusing to look at Harry. If she could get away from Harry, she might be able clear her mind and think.

Or just stop shaking.

"Harry, please," she said. "Let me out."

"You're not going to leave?" he said. "Or—or _that_?" He gestured at her wrist.

"I didn't try to kill myself." It would be the easy way out.

Harry gave her a very dubious look. Anger rose in her. Did he honestly think she'd commit suicide?

"Look, you git," Ginny spat, crossing her arms. "Let me out. I'm not going to do anything stupid. I'm going for a walk."

Harry crossed his arms as well and she felt slightly amazed that he could look so much taller when really he was just a head and shoulders above her. "Only if you promise not to leave," he said firmly.

"Don't make me hex you," she said through gritted teeth.

"Your wand is by your bag. Conveniently out of reach," Harry said, but there was little jesting in his voice.

Ginny glared at him. Although Harry shifted slightly, he didn't budge and remained unaffected by her steely, angry expression. He was bound and determined, and she knew it.

"Fine," she sighed, dropping her arms and fierce act. "I promise I won't leave. Now let me go?"

Harry just stood there for a moment, scrutinizing whether or not she was lying, and then he unlocked his arms and shrugged. "Go," he said, stepping back and gesturing at the door.

Ginny didn't need to be told twice. She squeezed past him (and wished the space wasn't so small), grabbed her satchel and wand, and flung open the door.

"Ginny!" Renee exclaimed. She waved an oven mitt around. "We're going to have waffles! What syrup do you—?"

Ginny didn't let Renee finish but went straight out the door.

Not for the first time in her life, time seemed to not be of the essence nor hold any meaning. She could not even measure it by the tread of her feet or the slant of vague shadows under a slow-moving, thin veil of clouds. Not even if she counted her breaths would she acknowledge the hours passed as she wandered, aimlessly and numb, through Sydney's close suburbs, befuddled parks, and center streets. By the time the clouds surrendered to Australia's summer dryness and heat, the sun was slinking sheepishly toward the wild, unseen wilderness of the Bush, but Ginny only recognized the hour as a reluctant, foreboding step toward her inevitable murky doom.

She felt numb of anything except the dull ache in her limbs and stomach. Emotional fatigue had long preceded the physical exhaustion that drove her into The Smoking Beaker, a small, dingy pub tucked rather sulkily into a back corner of The Rocks' wizarding district.

"Wot will you 'ave, miss?" asked the shiny-faced, grizzly barman when she leaned against the blackened wood of the counter.

"Just . . . a butterbeer," said Ginny wearily. Her stomach ached weakly, hopefully, and she let out a sigh, "and a roll?"

"Comin' righ' up."

Muttering her thanks, Ginny shouldered her satchel and peered through the inky yellow glow of the pub for a small, indiscreet table. Since it was rather early on a Monday evening, only a few patrons adorned the crooked furniture, and most were slumped suspiciously over their hand of cards and paid little attention to her. A warty old witch with very little hair stared beadily at the steaming goblet in front of her. In one corner, two teenagers were gazing shiftily at each other, their hands fidgeting on the tabletop. The boy smiled nervously at Ginny as she passed, and she wished that she could smile back reassuringly.

Instead, she let her eyes slide past the young couple and found another empty, wobbly table tucked into the recesses of the room. She let out a groan as her body hit the hard, creaking chair. Closing her eyes, she let her head fall into her hands, and knew, had she not been so weary and numb, she might have wept.

Confusion threatened to overwhelm her, as if she were drowning and had one split, irreplaceable second to decide whether to keep fighting painfully for the top or surrender with a lung-filling, darkness-hailing swallow.

She didn't know what she wanted, only that she wanted all of this to stop. Could she, should she confess everything to Harry? How could she survive his scorn? For surely Harry, the pillar of loyalty, bravery, and steadfastness against evil, could not overlook her betrayal, her pathetic weakness.

She'd spent the past two years punishing herself for this, but the question was no longer whether or not she deserved this self-affliction or Harry's potential hate.

"'Ere you go, miss." A cold bottle of butterbeer and a warm, steaming roll appeared in front of her.

"Thanks," she mumbled. Not feeling very hungry but recognizing the telltale signs of dehydration and short-term famine, she took a drink and bite. Her parched, unused throat choked before she managed to swallow successfully.

Just as she was wiping crumbs and butterbeer off her lips with a napkin, the pub door opened and she nearly lost the food she'd just fought down.

It couldn't be . . . She was tired and delirious, her nightmares and circular, depressing thoughts were messing with her mind, and now her eyes . . . No, _he_ couldn't be here . . .

But he was.

A manic, hysterical laugh almost slipped through her gaping mouth. How ironic that he would seek refuge from England in the same place as Harry!

The compulsion whooshed out of her as Draco Malfoy's cold, gray eyes landed on her, punching her in the gut.

They stared at each other for a moment, the candle-lighted distance failing to allay the horrified shock in those pale eyes. Ginny barely had a second to register the certain raggedness in Draco Malfoy's sunken, pointed face and lank hair before he whirled around and disappeared into the darkened streets.

For another second she sat there, dazed—shocked—and then she gasped.

The next second she knocked over a chair as she dashed out the door, her satchel banging against her thigh.

Looking left and right, she paused in the middle of the street, damning the sun for setting. The flickering pools of light from the street lamps hindered her as she searched frantically for any sign of Draco. Just as she was about to turn away, she saw a pale head pass quickly under a torch—

She tore off after him.

Part of her knew that chasing Draco Malfoy down the little, winding streets of wizarding Sydney was insane and not something the old Ginny Weasley would have done, unless he'd insulted her mother or threatened any of her friends. But that Ginny was dead on a cold stone floor.

Up ahead, as if sensing her pursuit, Malfoy ducked into an alley. She darted around a trio of chattering witches and plunged into the alley after him.

It was empty.

She raced down it, skirt bunched in one hand, her wand thrust forward in her other. At the other end, another narrow street opened and wound up in a curve. Her limbs burned and her lungs protested, but she ran up the slippery cobblestones determinedly. Just as she was passing the small space between two leaning buildings, she sensed movement in the blackness, spun around, and yelled, _"Impedimenta!" _ as her ankle twisted viciously under her.

Someone cried out as the jet of red light connected. In that brief flash, a figure fell back into a dustbin, sending up a crash of noise.

Ginny stumbled and hissed in pain. She'd injured this ankle before.

Her wand thrust out, she limped to the gap between the buildings, and muttered, _"Lumos."_

"Draco?" she called, breathlessly, from pain and exertion.

"Damn it, Weasley! What the bollocks do you think you're doing?" Draco Malfoy's angry, muffled voice came from the awkwardly shifting lump of robes under the upturned dustbin. The sight might have been gratifying under different circumstances.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Ginny said wryly.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" growled Draco.

"Well, obviously, I'm not referring to the effects my curses tend to have on you," snapped Ginny, trying to stand upright as her wand's light fell over Draco's crumpled, struggling form. "You ought to be grateful I didn't use my favorite hex on you."

"I would think—" an arm appeared from the folds, "—that _you_ would be—" the arm tugged at the robe thrown over his head, "—a little more grateful."

Malfoy's face popped out of his robes and he squinted sullenly up at her, very un-Malfoy-like in his dilapidated state. His robes were well worn, and although they were of a finer material than Ginny's family could ever hope to afford, they were decidedly below the Malfoy standard.

"I thought you said you didn't _want_ gratitude," she said quietly, watching him struggle with the stiffness in his limbs.

"Oh no," Draco smiled coldly with a corner of his thin mouth. "A Weasley indebted to a Malfoy is too good."

"I can see being a fugitive has cheered you up."

"You don't look rosy yourself, Weasley." He'd managed to sit up and used the overturned dustbin and brick wall to stand up.

Ginny didn't respond. Now that her heart had slowed to a manageable beat, she could feel the icy November chill seeping into her bones, a reminder of the empty, desolate place Draco had left her two years ago.

Her struggle between wanting it all to end and somehow striving to survive had begun there.

"You should have left me."

The words spilled out before she could stop them. Her throat constricted painfully, as if trying desperately to swallow them back up.

"What?" Draco snapped, pushing hair away from his eyes.

Ginny blinked, tried to grope for breath to speak, but stood there, dumbfounded by her own words. How could she say that? If he'd left her in Malfoy Manor, Voldemort would more than likely be ruling Britain and Harry would most likely be—

"Never mind," she croaked.

Draco stared narrowly at her, the Impediment Spell noticeably leaving his limbs while the tension still remained in his narrow shoulders.

"What are you doing here?" she asked quietly, wanting desperately for him to look away. She'd never seen eyes so cold, so unfeeling and shrewd. Voldemort's had held crimson cruelty and hate, however soulless they had been. These eyes, once haughty and prideful as cruel, were frigid and empty as the winter meadow he'd left her in.

"Think, Weasley," Draco said derisively. "You said so yourself—I'm a fugitive."

"By choice."

"Oh yes," he said with a short, cold laugh. "I _chose_ to be in this backwater wasteland."

"Well, you did. I told you that you would have been under the protection of the Order—"

"And I told _you_ that I wanted nothing to do with Dumbledore's pansy crusaders." Draco made to move toward the street, but he jerked toward her, his pale eyebrows arched, a familiar, sadistic curl to his thin lips. "What about _you_, Weasley? What are _you_ doing down here?"

Ginny glared at him, feeling her old school malice toward Draco Malfoy, but also wanting desperately to hate him for asking the very question she'd been asking herself and didn't know the answer to.

"Not shagging Potter, are you?" he spat, taking a step toward her. "I would think he would have trashed you by now."

"Shut up," she said through gritted teeth. Her wand was still pointed at him, but it trembled.

Draco smirked, a gleeful twitch in his face. "That's right. I know he's here. The bastard. Does he know you surrendered to the Dark Lord, Weasley?"

"What the hell do you want, Malfoy?" said Ginny, her voice starting to crack.

"So you haven't."

"Answer the bloody question."

Draco merely raised an eyebrow and shrugged. "You're the one who chased me down the street. I believe the question is for you."

A long moment of silence passed, and then, slowly, Ginny lowered her wand. She gazed down at her feet. All of the pain she'd walked into numb submission welled up in her, pushing determinedly through her, begging for release. Out of habit, she forced it down before it became too much, before she could lose control in this tiny dark annex, standing before Draco Malfoy, the only other living soul who knew the truth.

"Right. I'm off—"

"Wait!"

She snatched at his sleeves, jerking him back. Draco spun around—and she thought she saw a flicker of hope? relief? flit across his drawn face.

"What now, Weasley?"

"I—er—" She paused, not knowing what exactly she meant to say, only that Draco Malfoy had a part in her pain and that she wanted something resolved. When she didn't speak right away, she thought he would roll his eyes and flee, but he merely crossed his arms and waited, and she wondered if perhaps they were once again weaving through the treacherous maze of the manor garden.

"You know you can go back to England, right?" said Ginny.

"For what?" snapped Draco. "What bloody is there for me? I know my parents are dead. The Ministry seized my wealth. _Wrongfully_, I may add. Fortunately, Father secured foreign holdings."

Judging by his robes, those holdings were not as secure as he would like.

"Why aren't you in England gloating over your side's victory?" Draco went on mockingly. "Why aren't you and Potter and your disgusting brother and his pathetic Mudblood making revolting babies? I'm sure it must be perfectly wretched. How horrid to have perfect little lives as _courageous_ and _just_ heroes."

"Because I'm no better than you!" she spat. "Because I am _worse_ than you! And no one had it easy or perfect while you sulked! People suffered and died—and you—you did nothing. How can you do nothing?"

"I had no virtues to begin with," said Draco, his face impassive and shadowed. "When you have no virtues, you can't fall or redeem yourself. So why even try?"

Ginny stared at Draco Malfoy, at the hollowness of a face only etched in bitterness. How could someone go through a war unchanged? How could he be so soulless? She wanted to vomit at the sight of him; he reminded her too much of herself. Both of them had spent the past two years running from the same moment, neither of their intentions honorable. It struck Ginny as revoltingly ironic that she, a Gryffindor and advocate for the side of good, would willing surrender to evil, while Draco, a Slytherin and epitome of evil, spoiled git, would be the one to perform a heroic act. Even if it was just to get revenge on his father and, really, had nothing to do with the war.

For two years she'd been hiding her fall, clinging with shame to everyone's assumptions that she'd persevered through Voldemort's torture, while Draco had slinked away from gaining the freedom and praise of "turning to good." How could it be that Draco—Draco _bloody_ Malfoy—was the most honest one of them?

"I think I'm going to be sick," she muttered, clenching at her stomach.

"Not on me." Draco moved toward the front of the alley again. He paused and turned around, his face dark and silhouetted by the distant glow of street torches. "Do not follow me, Weasley. Do me a favor and keep yourself and Potter away from me."

"Fine," said Ginny weakly.

"I'm thinking of leaving the country, anyway," he went on emotionlessly. "Australia is becoming a bit crowded."

"Brilliant." Her stomach was empty. At least then she wouldn't be able to deposit anything on the cobblestones.

"Farewell, Weasley," Draco said quietly.

And then he was gone.

A heavy silence seeped into the night, pressing down gloomily upon her. The buzzing of the city seemed distant and foggy, as if played through an old record player from a high window several blocks away.

Ginny, arms wrapped tightly around her hollowed stomach, let her body fall back against the grimy brick wall. The stone was indifferent to her; cast in the shadow of its neighbor, the wall had not seen much sun, but it had not completely escaped the summer heat. No comforting heat or icy cold seeped from the stone to her bones, and Ginny felt all the worse for the building's lack of interest in her need.

"Would you _please_ stop galloping about, Harry?" pleaded Renee from where she was sprawled out on the couch.

"Sorry," Harry muttered, barely passing her a glance as he slid the balcony doors open again.

Night wind tossed the leaves of the tree down in the back garden, making the thinner branches sway and creak. The faintest hint of rain carried from the ocean onto the mainland, but it was distant, a barely perceptible flash on the horizon. Sweat trickled down his back, his shirt clung damply. Merlin, he wanted it to rain!

It could have rained all day, but it hadn't. He smelt it, had felt the cool, facetious promise of it, but it had not brought any relief. When the sun had peeked out at sunset, it had only served to warm the moist air, wrapping it heavily around him.

He pushed a hand through his hair, cast the scurrying, scattered clouds an irritated look, then turned on his heel and went back into the living room. Renee, ankles crossed on the back of the couch, shot him an exasperated look, strangely reminding him of Hermione.

"It's only a quarter past nine," she said.

"But she's been gone _all day_." Harry flung himself down on the other wing of the couch, but after a second lurched up again. He _hated_ worrying and waiting. And he especially hated people telling him to calm down and be patient. Sometimes they may have good reason to pacify him, but it didn't help the heat and tension coursing through his veins.

"She goes out a lot. Maybe _you_ should go out more," Renee said mildly, frowning at her nails. "Then you wouldn't be lit up like a bush telly."

"I am _not_ lit up like a . . . like a bush telly," Harry said indignantly. "I am simply . . . concerned."

"Ginny's a big girl, I'm sure she's right." Renee reached for the remote and flicked on the TV, viewing it upside down from her position. "And, anyway, if you're going to be mean as cat's piss and not tell me what the devil happened this morning, you can't trench my floor with your abominable pacing. There's a movie on I want to see."

Harry scowled but dropped back down onto the couch. "_I_ don't even know what happened, all right?" He frowned and added, "Since when are you such a stickybeak, anyway?"

"Since I started choking on all this unresolved tension," said Renee wryly.

"What unresol—never mind."

Renee grinned like a fox and righted herself to see the TV in a comprehensible manner. Just as Harry was trying to focus on the colored screen and take his mind off certain things, he heard the door open. His heart did a very strange and probably dangerous maneuver by splitting in two and lodging itself in his throat while sending half of it down to the very bottom of his stomach.

Renee shot him a warning look and shook her head almost imperceptibly. Harry raised his eyebrows questioningly—defiantly—but she made a short, curt slicing gesture with her hand. Giving her his best glare, he obeyed her and kept still as the door shut; Ginny's footsteps raised the hair on his arms.

Or it could have been distant lightning.

"Have a good walk, Gin?" Renee called, nearly sending Harry off the couch.

"Er—yeah. Brilliant," said Ginny; she sounded exhausted and shaky.

Despite himself and Renee's warning looks, Harry turned on the couch.

"What happened to you?" he blurted.

Ragged and white, she limped noticeably, a grimace of pain on her face. Her eyes, clouded but wide like a wounded, frightened animal, flicked toward him. "I tripped down at The Rocks."

Something about the way she said it or the fact that she did not look quite at him made Harry suspicious. Ginny was an excellent liar. Usually if she was completely covering something, she would be flippant and nonchalant, but if she was trying to hide under the truth, she could get a little twitchy or evasive about it.

"Are you all right?" he finally asked.

Ginny stared at him, as if he'd asked something bewildering or difficult. He couldn't help but glance toward her wrist; the bandage was still there. A horrible desperation to see what exactly lay under the gauze rose up in Harry, but he also very much wanted to remain ignorant.

"I Apparated," she said slowly, carefully. "That helped." Then, gingerly, she turned away and hobbled into her room and shut the door.

Harry let out a breath and glanced at Renee, who gave him a searching look.

He shrugged and dropped his head on the couch back. Closing his eyes, he tried to relax into the cushions. Ginny was home; safe and a little injured, but she hadn't fled the country or flung herself off a cliff. Clearly she wasn't all right and things definitely were not rosy between them, and this morning he was certain she'd done something very un-Ginny-like and extremely disturbing . . .

Oh Merlin – would she do it _now_?

"Harry—what—?"

Ignoring Renee's protest, Harry got up and knocked on Ginny's door. "Ginny?" he called, fearing he wouldn't get an answer.

For three long seconds, there wasn't one, but finally she replied, "What do you want, Harry?"

"Er." He couldn't very well say, "Just wanted to make sure you were still breathing." That would seem a little melodramatic and Ginny seemed to be rather offended that he'd suspected her of—of suicide this morning.

"I—er—just wanted to know if you needed anything. Like, um, some ice or—or I don't know . . ."

"I've got my wand, Harry, it works better than ice," Ginny's muffled, tired voice came through the door.

"What about food?" Harry felt rather stupid for still thinking like a Muggle sometimes.

"I'm not hungry."

Now that, Harry knew, was a lie.

"That's too bad," he said casually. Two could play that. "Nay and I were about to have some hot fudge sundaes."

He thought, perhaps, that he heard a muffled whimper.

"No, sorry," said Ginny. "I'm going to sleep."

Sighing, Harry left the door. If hot fudge couldn't bring her out, nothing would; and, frankly, he was just too tired to figure out a conversation or what the hell was going on. He mumbled to Renee that he was going to bed and then, wishing he had a good Sleeping Draught, collapsed into bed.


	18. Catalyst

Chapter Eighteen

"Catalyst"

_Shadows and smoke . . . the ethereal, menacing flicker of green and black smoke . . . She knew this well, knew how those wraithlike fingers of the potion's curling smoke penetrated her and disembodied her spirit. The scene spread out before her as it always did, as she knew it would._

_The cauldron bubbled and frothed, licking at the rim, eagerly awaiting the blood to be spilt. Wormtail's silver hand, his mark of betrayal, flickered and glowed as he ladled the potion for his master. She knew exactly how he did it, how he would always do it, and how Voldemort would receive it. The Dark Lord stood tall and thin, a sliver, against the senseless play of green and black fog, his eyes glowing crimson as he stared rabidly into her. _

_His spidery hands found her, clasped her, and the pain came. It always came. She always knew she still could fight it, could still refuse him, and then he would fail._

_But she did not. She never did. She never would._

_The pain wrenched. She couldn't scream. _

_She never could. Never would._

_But the pain would always rip through her, always tear to her very core—twist and shred until it finally ended. Until she was nothing._

_She would always be nothing._

_And then she would watch, unable to feel because the pain had taken everything. She saw him bleed, as she always did. The green in his eyes—real green, not this evil green—would fade, the blood would eventually stop, and then everything would stop. It always did. _

_She watched Voldemort drink the life from Harry as she always did. She might have stopped it, but she did not, could not. _

_But then she screamed._

The screaming woke him.

But the moment Harry's eyes opened, it stopped. _I imagined it_, he thought. The only sound was the pounding of his heart, but his ears rang as if something had erupted beside him. Someone had screamed. Was it him? He hadn't been dreaming. Or at least he didn't think so.

Harry shook his head, trying to clear it. He looked around the room. It was still night. Air, heavy from the thunder rolling in off the ocean, bowed the walls. The storm seemed to be waiting as it had when he'd first drifted off to sleep. Sweat trickled down his spine where it'd gathered as he'd slept on his stomach. Goosebumps crawled up his back to replace the beads of sweat.

He shivered and reached for a discarded t-shirt. As he pulled it over his head, he heard a muffled whimper and froze.

" _. . . H-Harry . . . nooo . . ."_

Ginny.

Letting out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, Harry ran a hand through his hair and got up for the door. Out in the little corridor, Renee was rubbing a fist into her eye as she peeked her wildly bed-tossed head around her door.

"Harry—wha's goin' on?" she mumbled.

"Er—I think Ginny's having a nightmare," Harry muttered, not quite looking at Renee. He was glad for the darkness. _She's having a nightmare about me_, he thought, edging for the closed closet door. _Like in the hotel. Why is she having a nightmare about me?_

"Wha—"

"Ssh." Harry shook his head. He put a hand around the doorknob, took a deep breath, then opened it and stepped inside the closet.

The faint, eerie purple glow from the rope light cast the tiny room into ghostlike shadow. Curled into a ball, her body entwined in white sheets, Ginny was sobbing chokingly into her knees. Long, tangled and sweat-matted hair draped like vines around her. He couldn't tell if she was awake or still trapped in whatever horrible visions had made her scream, but it disturbed him. She shivered violently despite the stifling air.

"Ginny?" Harry said softly. His chest was tight. He wiped his palms on his t-shirt. "Ginny? Are you all right? Er—awake?"

She let out a long, painful moan worse than her sobs. Harry clenched his fists, then forced them to relax as he crept forward to the edge of the bed. He cautiously knelt down, and gingerly reached out to touch her shoulder. "Ginny?" he said again, his fingers brushing clammy skin.

She gasped and snapped up, wild, knotted hair falling over her face. Reddened, glossy eyes stared at him. Her white lips moved soundlessly for a moment. She started trembling violently.

"H-Harry?" she rasped in a small voice. "Y-you're—a-a-_alive_?"

"Yes—_oof!_"

Ginny suddenly launched at him, her arms coming forcefully, painfully around his neck. "You're not dead!" she cried hysterically, making his ear twinge in pain as he tried to right himself under her sudden weight. "You're alive! You're not dead! I didn't kill you! Harry, Harry, Harry . . ."

_What the HELL?_ "Er . . . Ginny?" Harry would have shaken his head in bewilderment, but he could barely move for the vice sobbing wretchedly around his neck. Trying to breathe, he put a bracing arm around her and tried to balance on the bed. He could barely think through the reverberating, incoherent mumbling going on, but was very conscience of the last time Ginny had been so close to him in this mad state.

"It's all right, Ginny," he tried to soothe, once he'd settled on the edge of the bed. "Sssh, it's all right. I'm alive. See? Harry breathing. Sort of. I'm not dead. You just had a nightmare. It's fine now . . ."

He trailed off. She didn't seem to be listening, really, just gradually crushing his neck and closing off his air passage. Shifting slightly, he tried to free his neck a bit. She held tighter. Giving up, he sat very still, an arm around the small of her back, the other bracing him under her deadened weight. After a couple of minutes, she seemed to quiet and slump against him. Her breathing on the back of his neck evened out, but he still had goosebumps.

_This would be great_, he thought absently, his eyes getting heavy, _if my limbs weren't going numb_.

Relaxing a bit, Harry couldn't help but be aware of every part of Ginny touching him. The air, already stifling, became hotter, and he tried not to think about how thin her little faded nightdress was or how he suddenly wished he hadn't put on his t-shirt. _Potter, you perve. This is very serious_.

But he couldn't stop the idea of only having to lean back onto the bed with a comatose Ginny. She seemed to be asleep, he didn't want to disturb her, and he could very easily close his eyes here, the heat be damned. But then he remembered very clearly how Ginny reacted to any close contact like that, and Harry knew he'd pay for it in the morning.

Swallowing this idea, he moved to lay her down and then leave, but as he shifted, she started and pulled back. Her eyes widened in horror and her jaw tensed. That defensive mask slammed over her face.

"Ginny?"

She jerked away, her back hitting the wall.

Harry gaped—stunned. "Sorry, I—what the—Ginny—" He instinctively reached for her shoulder, but she leaned away from him.

"Don't touch me!" she snapped angrily.

"Wha—"

"Just don't, Harry," said Ginny, wiping at her eyes. Her shoulders were hunched as she turned away from him, her forehead pressed to the wall. "I can't stand it."

Harry mouthed, fishlike, for a moment. It felt as if she'd slapped him across the face. What the hell had he done? What the hell was making her like this? Two nights of severe nightmares, one where she confessed to killing a Death Eater, and just a moment before she'd been ecstatic to see him alive (didn't she mention she killed him or some such thing?), and now she seemed right brassed off that he was even here. What did she expect him to do, anyway? Everyone else freaked out whenever he had a bloody nightmare, and it was all perfectly fine for _them_ to rush in, yelling at him to recount every vivid, painful detail, but he wasn't allowed to show concern when Ginny screamed as if she were under the Cruciatus?

"Fine," he said, sounding more irritable than he meant to. "I'm going." He got up to leave.

"No! Wait!" she cried desperately, suddenly lunging at him. Ginny snatched his hand, her slender fingers crushing his knuckles.

"Ginny, what the bloody—"

She shook her head, eyes cast down on the mattress. "You were dead."

Harry tried not to be disturbed by this. "That was just a dream. I'm alive. Or I'm a very confused ghost—"

"Shut up."

"Sorry."

Harry stood dumbly, trying not to wince from her tight grip. Ginny continued to avoid his gaze, hiding behind her tangled mane. After a moment, he sighed and asked, "What do you want me to do?" He was confused, tired, and a little bit wary.

Ginny startled, and glanced up blinkingly. Her skin was very pale in the faint purple light, making her freckles show almost blackly. Dark shadows filled the hollow of her eyes and her cheeks were streaked from just dried tears. She looked lost, ghostly, and defeated.

"I . . . don't know," she whispered, looking at his elbow. "If I go back to sleep, I'll think you're d-dead. I'll dream it again. And if you leave, I'll still think it."

Harry wiped his brow with his free hand. "All right." Did she want to stay up, then?

"But I'm so tired," she mumbled, as if to herself. Her head tilted to the side and her eyes blinked ponderously. She looked as if she were going to collapse.

"You should probably sleep, then," Harry said lamely.

Ginny swayed slightly. Harry, his hand still trapped in hers, thought about making for the door, but she tightened her grip and whispered, "Please stay, Harry. If you don't, I'll know I killed you."

"Er . . . all right." Bewildered, Harry lowered himself until he was kneeling beside the bed, level with Ginny. She wouldn't look at him, but lied down as far from him as possible, her back to the wall, and kept hold of his hand. She said nothing as she curled up again and tucked her other hand under her pillow. After a moment, her eyes fluttered shut and her lips parted slightly as her breathing deepened.

Harry stared at Ginny for a long moment, utterly confused. Then he tried to situate himself on the floor so that he might sleep in a semi-comfortable position next to the bed. In the end, he leaned against the bed, his right arm stretched out to Ginny, his head somewhat pillowed against the mattress. He knew he'd be very sore in the morning.

Ginny slept fitfully. Voldemort cackled in her ears, filled her mind with dripping blood, paling lips, and accusing eyes. He knew, she knew, and she could not escape it. Snakes coiled euphorically around her, entwining her in their sinister, joyous hisses. _You betrayed him. You are one of us. Stupid girl. We know. You are weak. You betrayed him_.

When she finally woke, she felt drugged and sore. Her skin itched painfully from the soft cotton of her nightdress; the mattress felt like rock. Groggily, she became aware of a dead weight stretched across the mattress, ending in live heat. Slowly she forced her eyes open to sleep-blurred vision.

_He's not dead_. _I didn't kill him._

_But I almost did._

She could feel the little thumps of blood pumping through his thumb, the slight twitch in his palm, but all she could see was Harry, dead, the last of his blood flowing into Voldemort's boiling cauldron. Heavy cold crept up her spine as her vision cleared to find him watching her through drowsy eyes and messy fringe.

"'Morning," he mumbled, blinking slowly.

She couldn't speak. His thumb moved almost lazily under her palm. Ginny jerked her hand from Harry's, as if burned, and she pushed herself up. She tightly wrapped her arms around herself, shivering from the cold she knew all too well.

_I killed him, I killed him, I killed him. _

"Ginny?"

_I betrayed him. Betrayed. I'm a traitor. He'll hate me._

"Please, Ginny—"

"Just go away, Harry," she said through gritted teeth. Her stomach clenched. _I'm going to be sick . . ._ "_Please_, damn it!"

"What's the matter with you?"

Ginny stiffened. Harry sounded crossed between angry and concerned; both crawled under her skin. She wanted to scream at him, but her throat closed. He waited a minute before letting out a frustrated grunt and stood up.

"Fine. Whatever."

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him open the door and shut it harder than necessary. Tears started to blur her vision, but she blinked them away rapidly and gripped her knees tightly. The urge to toss her stomach on the sheets intensified, but she had nothing to help it along. Groaning, she tried to control the tension tightening every muscle in her body.

He was getting fed up with her. Maybe he'd hate her soon. Without even knowing what she'd done. Maybe that would make it all easier.

"I should've left," she told her bed linen. But what good would that have done? _Saved Harry the headache_.

There seemed to be nothing she could do without screwing it up for someone else. Or herself. Sighing, she rolled off the bed, grabbed some fresh clothes, and made for the shower, hoping Harry would be out of sight, bent on avoiding her. In the brief dart from closet to bathroom, Ginny heard Renee's voice, but no one stopped her.

She showered long, switching from burning hot to suffocating cold, trying to burn and shock herself into control. When she couldn't take it any longer, she stepped out into the steamy mist. Then she slowly untangled her hair, carefully using her fingers to untwine the long, water-slicked locks. The foggy veil gradually parted, leaving moisture droplets on the mirror and sink. Ginny tried not to think or feel but concentrated on the physical world of her fingers working through her hair. She felt on edge, as if only a simple breeze would push her over.

When she couldn't delay any longer, she abandoned the damp cocoon and crept into the open kitchen. Immediately she tensed up, every muscle contracting, caging something dangerous inside her.

Harry was washing the breakfast dishes, his back to her. She could tell by the tension in his shoulders that he knew she was there. Renee was nowhere to be found. Ginny peered through the living room to the sliding doors and balcony. Dark, low storm clouds pressed down on the trees and rooftops. Rain splattered against the glass and leaves tossed and swirled around. Although the ocean was obscured from view, she could well imagine tumultuous whitecaps smashing against the craggy rocks of the shore.

_Good. A day to suit me_, she thought, brushing cold, wet hair away from her eyes.

Thunder rolled overhead. Ginny turned away from the windows and watched Harry for a moment. He was on the last dish, a cereal bowl, and seemed to be extra concerned for its cleanliness. Biting back a frustrated sigh, Ginny went to the fridge for some orange juice. Her stomach ached for food, but she couldn't eat, not with this tension. But the lack of food made her lightheaded.

As she poured herself a glass, Harry set the bowl down and pulled the sink drainer. Her throat was so parched and closed she could barely swallow. What did make it down burned. _Maybe orange juice wasn't such a good choice_ . . .

"So, what happened with Dean?"

Ginny spluttered and dropped the glass. It smashed on the floor. Choking, she managed to gasp, "_What?"_

Harry watched the water being sucked out of the sink, his back still to her. "I said, what happened with Dean?" He had a tight edge to his voice. Like an afterthought, he reached for his wand and flicked it, without turning, at the shattered glass. _"Reparo_."

Ginny stared, flabbergasted. She couldn't have been more shocked or horrified if Harry had been sporting a tutu. Now she was glad she hadn't swallowed much juice.

"I—I don't want to talk about it," she bit out.

"I used to think it was something he did," Harry went on, sounding strangely determined. He reached for the dishtowel, and turned slowly, drying his hands. "But now I'm thinking he broke up with you, because of the way you've been acting."

"And just how have I been acting, Harry?" Ginny snapped, her fists clenched at her sides. What the hell was going on? Since when was Harry confrontational with her, and why was he so harped up on _Dean_? Shouldn't he be asking what happened last night?

"Not like you," said Harry, frowning. "No one knows how the hell to act around you, because you act like you're going to burst at any moment. And then one minute you're like yourself and the next you're all cold and different. Bloody hell, Ginny, you're acting like I did in fifth year—just more bipolar or something. What are you doing here? And with me— because you clearly don't want anything to do with me."

He stopped and took a deep breath, his eyes darting away for a second before fastening on her again. "So," he said, "what happened with Dean?"

Ginny closed her eyes, unable to look Harry in the eye. She clenched her fists, willing her body not to tremble. Blood rushed to her face. She wanted to shout that he had no right to ask her these questions or say those things or raise his voice, but part of her knew he was right and deserved an answer. If only she could find one.

At least she was certain on Dean.

"What happened with Dean?" she said tiredly. "Same thing that happened in fifth year, really."

Harry's brow furrowed. "You dated him to get at Ron?"

Ginny almost laughed, but felt too strung out for that. "No. I guess it's more of a Michael Corner thing . . ." She kept her eyes trained on the countertop and wished she had the energy to hide her blush. "I dated him to push something away . . . And I wasn't really dating Dean. I was just pretending—trying to be normal. To push it away. On Halloween I tried to forget it, but I couldn't, I just couldn't. So I tried to replace it with Dean."

"Ginny, about that night—"

"Don't say it, Harry!" Ginny looked at him sharply, then down at the counter top. She clenched her fists. "We said we were going to forget about it. Why can't you just forget about it?"

Harry's mouth hardened. "Why couldn't you just let me say it? And I can't forget about it. It's rather out there."

"Because I couldn't _let_ you!" she snapped. Panicked he might say it again, she ran a hand through her hair, and cast her eyes elsewhere, blindly hoping for the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

"_Why?"_ Harry demanded, taking a step forward. She backed up with a squeak.

"I just couldn't," she said weakly. "And I still can't. We can only be friends. If even that."

Harry stared at her, the dishtowel still caught in his hands. Finally, his shoulders slumped a little and he shook his head, looking defeated. "If that's what you want . . ."

"Of course it isn't," Ginny muttered under her breath.

But he heard her and leaped on it. "Then why—"

"I'm not healthy for you, Harry," she sighed, looking around him. _I shouldn't have come here. I should have stayed away from you._

"What does that mean?" said Harry, obviously confused. "You've always been good for me." He suddenly turned red, looking wholly embarrassed for saying so. "I mean," he said quickly, the edge gone from his voice as he stumbled over his words, "I mean, you're good at pulling my head out of my arse and stuff. Or joking around when everyone else is too busy coddling me, or—"

"But I'm not that girl anymore!" Ginny snapped angrily. "I haven't been for a long time! And, anyway, she was just a little delusional pretender. Or maybe I really was her for awhile, but now I don't know, I just don't know!"

"Ginny, what—?"

But she waved him off and turned away. An odd buzzing seemed to be passing through her body, rattling her bones, droning in her ears. The floor tilted dangerously. Her lungs contracted, tightening. She saw a flash of evil green smoke, red eyes, and blood. Blinking hard, she tried not to cry out or stumble. _I'm awake, it was all a nightmare. I'm awake. _But the floor continued to shift, and the panicked vibration ravaged under her skin. It burned. Her eyes, her throat, her skin.

_Oh my god, I'm going to explode_, she thought wildly, reeling away from the wall toward the door.

She thought she heard her name, startled and scared, but she was stumbling out into the corridor. She had to get out—away. At any moment she was going to scream or burst. The nightmare wrapped around her, cold and searing at once, trapping her like the cell. She wanted frostbite grass stabbing her bare feet, hypothermia stopping her in an empty street, anything but here, like this . . .

"Hullo, love," said number two, heading for the front doors. "Nasty bit of—"

Ginny brushed past him for the back door to the enclosed garden. The handle slammed painfully into her hip as she pushed against the glass, but the door gave way, dumping her in torrential escape. Rain lashed at her, falling heavier than a moment before, as if heeding her desperate plea. The wind howled, roaring through her ears, sweeping the buzzing out of her ears. Lighting flashed bright and sharp overhead, followed instantly by a crack of thunder. Leaves, shocked by such summer aggression, smacked into her.

But it was warm. All this savageness was warm. She wanted ice.

Tears stung her eyes as she let the wind push her further into the garden. She swayed weakly with it, allowing the gushes to carry her wherever they wished. Why couldn't it be cold? Just this once? She wanted it numb. Deathly numb. Then she could soak in it, drown for a bit, pay a little more penance. Even now, after all of this time, she just wanted to go back in time to that cell; not to fight the good fight, but to end it all quickly. Surrender faster and end all of this. Then everyone would have known and she wouldn't have to deal with it.

Choking back the sob she knew she wanted to let out, Ginny tilted her head back, looking up at the storm that battered the garden's central tree. Her favorite sort of storm clouds, all deep, dark blue and black gray, like angry bruises laced with sharp shoots of pain. She'd missed Hogwarts' violent storms.

Someone shouted behind her, words lost in the wind's gusto. Ginny didn't turn or push against the wind as she sensed him approach. Thoroughly soaked now, the wind chilled her heavy clothes, conceding to Ginny's want. But it wasn't enough. She wanted to freeze.

"Ginny," Harry said, breathlessly trying to speak over the wind. He was at her shoulder, soaked, dark, leaning against the storm.

She stiffened, feeling tight, white-hot resentment bracing her. She wanted to kill every righteous bit about him, see him step back and let the storm take her. _This has to end now,_ she realized. _I can't go on like this. _

"Come on, Ginny!" Harry shouted, reaching for her. "You're going to get sick out here!"

Ginny shook her head and stepped away from him, nearly stumbling to the ground. Her soaked, heavy skirt tangled around her legs. Harry reached out for her, but she swatted his hand away. Lightning struck dangerously close, flashing the world white for a brief moment before plunging it into crashing dark. She jumped. Her lungs forgot their purpose. The ground tipped again, threatening to dump her into the sky. Ice fought with fiery pain. She saw, just beyond the garden in another flash of lightning, Harry bleeding into the cauldron as Voldemort drank his blood.

"Ginny!" Harry shouted, desperate, snapping her back as another ear-splitting thunderclap pounded the air and ground.

She felt it in her body. Turning, she stared up at Harry, and everything around her stilled, went silent. She saw the tossing trees, felt the lashing of wind and rain, but a loud silence befell her. Harry stood before her, white and dripping, swaying in the storm, his messy hair plastered and clinging over his eyes blinking furiously against the storm.

"I thought I'd die for you," she said softly.

"_What?_" Harry shouted.

Her string, pulled so tightly from the bow, was released.

"I thought I'd die for you, Harry!" she shouted, her throat exploding, her lungs flexing. "I thought I'd endure endless agony for you! How wrong I was—how _delusional! _Oh, I would have died—for MYSELF! I wanted to die for ME! So I didn't have to feel the pain! I couldn't take it, Harry, and I still can't take it! I've had it with pain!"

"Ginny, what are you talking about?" Harry yelled back, his flinching face perplexed.

"I KILLED you, Harry!" The wind abruptly switched directions, sending her sprawling forward into Harry. He stumbled back, his hands fumbling at her arms, but she broke away, shoving him in the chest. "I bloody KILLED you! I didn't die for you! I wasn't strong enough!"

"What are you talking about? Ginny, I'm ALIVE!"

Ginny drew herself up, the storm billowing with her, sweeping her into its rage. He had to hate her, had to know, had to leave her here. "Don't you get it, Harry?" she spat angrily. "Don't you see? I BETRAYED you! Voldemort wanted me to betray you, so he could kill you and me and become immortal! I SAW you DIE! And I didn't care! I just wanted to die, to have the pain end! I wanted to die for me, not for you. I GAVE myself to Voldemort. I saw him suck the life and blood out of you, watched you die—_and I didn't care!_ I didn't care you were dying, that _he_ had won! I was dead, I was gone."

The wind suddenly died down, the rain falling vertical instead of attacking from the sides. Overhead the brooding navy of the clouds were retreating under the force of low hanging deep gray. The rage boiling in her seemed to recede with the fading thunder, settling to something cold and weak and unsteady.

She felt her body grow limp under the enormous weight of her drenched clothes.

"I thought I could stop it, Harry," she said, unable to shout now. She thought she might be crying; she couldn't see his face anymore. Only blurred shapes. "The second time. I could be wiser, you know, stronger after the Chamber of Secrets. I thought that maybe you and Dumbledore were right, that it wasn't my fault, that I wasn't weak. Oh no, I'm weak. Dumbledore knew I was weak. He put that spell on me. But I was still too weak. I couldn't stop it. Didn't want to stop it. I just wanted to end my pain." Her knees gave out and she surrendered, falling to the wet, muddied earth.

Digging her nails into the grass, the mud, she croaked, "I loved you and I couldn't even die for you!" Cool mud seeped under her fingernails. "How stupid of me to think I would be strong enough—_worthy_ enough. I watched you die. I wanted to give myself to _him_. I _surrendered_. I told myself I'd never do it again. But I did. All it took was a little pain. Just a little pain."

Then she stopped. She couldn't say any more. Rain slid over her, colder now than moments before, each drop weighing her down. _Maybe I can melt into the ground. Can you drown here? In the wet grass? _

Somewhere in her wet, draining sense, she felt Harry shift toward her. She flinched, drawing herself tighter into the comforting curtain of rain. She wanted a cave under a waterfall, somewhere to get away and escape, just for a moment. Cold stone floor, cold all around, pounding water between her and the rest of the world . . .

"Ginny."

He sounded strained, uneasy, and too close.

"Is . . . is this why you've been like . . . like this?" he said, somewhere outside the rain. She could tell he wanted in, but she dug deeper into the grass and closed her eyes tighter. Pain split under her fingernails as more mud pushed under them. "You're feeling, er, guilty because he t—because that bastard t-tortured you until you wanted to—well, to end?"

"You don't get it, do you?" she snapped, wrenched from her liquid hollow. Blinking through soaked lashes, Ginny glared at Harry, every muscle in her body trembling. "I _betrayed_ you, Harry. Willingly. He needed my betrayal, and I gave it to him. I knew you'd die. I knew everyone would die. But I _didn't care_, because I just wanted to _die_. The only reason he didn't get it was because Draco had a grudge against his father. Otherwise I would be dead, and you would be dead, and so would everyone else I love."

Harry blinked at her, his face slack and blank, green eyes dark with emotion as he tried to comprehend. Finally, he looked away, probably unable to bear the sight of her. She watched, for the moment, emotionless, as he pushed curling strands of hair away from his eyes. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

"Now you know why," she said quietly. The vague numbness was temporary. She knew it would fade soon, succumb to what she'd been holding back, what she could no longer hold inside. It was too much, fighting it these two years, and now being with Harry and knowing that now he knew, and now it was all over.

"Go on," Ginny said tightly, ripping out the grass as she stood. "Hate me," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"What--?" Harry's head shot up, but Ginny didn't hear him. A rapid pounding was rushing up, making her dizzy as she thrust her hand into her skirt pocket for her wand. She'd thought she'd need to see the hate in Harry's eyes, hear the disgust in his voice. But she didn't. Couldn't. She didn't want to be around for this ending.

She lifted her wand, focused the cliff in her mind, and gave the wand a twist. Sudden panic flashed across Harry's face in that brief second before she Disapparated.


	19. Lungs Out

A/N: Well, here it is, the last chapter. I'm sorry for my evilness in the last chapter, but I just couldn't resist a "cliffhanger." Also, I was thoroughly spooked when I saw Garden State and saw a couple of things very similar to what I had already planned long ago in this story. Shriya made a soundtrack for this fic, which can be found at 

Chapter Nineteen

"_Lungs Out"_

_Crack!_

Harry stared into empty air. The world felt threateningly quiet. No thunder or howling wind. No sobbed words.

No Ginny.

"Shit."

Harry spun around, slipping a bit in the mud. He made for the open sliding doors. He wasn't sure if he was panicking, but he definitely felt a sharp sense of urgency keeping him from thinking clearly. All he could see was Ginny, wild and mad, screaming into the storm, weeping into the grass. She was white as a corpse, like the morning Ron had found her frozen in the street. Her eyes had been nearly black, so dark and shining with tears as her mouth moved with words that couldn't possibly come from Ginny's mouth. Like something cursed and raw.

Harry swallowed and stepped through the doors, not bothering to wipe his shoes off. Heart pounding, head buzzing, he raced up the stairs, taking two at time. Maybe she'd just Apparated back to the flat. She could be drying off . . .

He burst into the flat.

"_Bloody hell!_"

Renee stood in the kitchen with her grocery sacks, eyes wide. Harry stared at her. She stared back.

"Hallo, Potter?" said Renee. "What the dickens is wrong with you?"

Harry shook his head, trying to clear it. "Er—Is Ginny here?"

Renee frowned. She glanced towards the bedrooms, then back at Harry. "Um, no. Why? Did she bugger off? You two have a row?"

Harry gripped his wand tightly, a feeling of dread coming over him. "She isn't here?"

"As I just said—no. Crikey, you look—"

But Harry didn't care how he looked. Without another word, he took off, pounding down the stairs and out into the wet street. He looked left and right for a flash of red hair, but he only saw slightly dazed Australians sticking their heads out windows and doors to confirm that the freak storm had indeed ended, and yes, that was water running into the gutters.

"Damn it, Potter, _think_!" he muttered.

She couldn't be leaving the country. All her stuff was back in the flat. Unless Renee had missed Ginny Apparating and packing with incredible speed. Where would Ginny go, upset like that? If she even got there. _In that state, she could be easily Splinched._

Harry swore harshly. He had to _think_. Where did Ginny spend all her time? Where had she gone last time she'd gone off in a strop?

_The Rocks . . . she goes there a lot. Maybe she wants a good drink. I know I do._

Taking a deep breath, Harry raised his wand, focused on his usual alley in The Rocks, and Disapparated.

The ocean was still angry about the storm. Ginny could hear and feel the waves smashing against the cliffs in thundering cracks as she climbed. The wind whipped at her hair and skirt, as if to ward her away from the top. Her chest and eyes burned from crying.

_I just have to see it_, she told herself as she neared the boulder she'd sat upon for many hours on sunshiny days. The stone was cool and wet under her shaking hand. Bracing. The wind swirled around it, trying to pull her away. Ginny used her free hand to untangle her skirt, but the material just snaked around her legs again. Surely it couldn't be in league with the wind, could it?

Ignoring her battling skirt, Ginny squinted out towards the ocean. It rocked and swayed, still dark and thrashing. The tumult called to her, feeding on her like the storm. _Let us have your pain!_ it seemed to shout.

_The ocean's so big, _Ginny thought wonderingly. _It has room for everything—all of it._

A slightly manic looked stretched across her face, drawing her lips out in a joyless smile. She stepped forward into the wind, her fingers dragging along the boulder, the rock cutting at her nails. She didn't notice. The wind tried to shove her back, but she bowed into it, determined to reach the cliff's edge.

If the ocean wanted her grief, it could damn well have it.

The small, sapling tree jutting out just below the edge creaked morosely. Ginny stared at it, her toes inches away from where the rock began to crumble into the sea. The storm had battered and bruised the poor thing—half its green leaves were gone and its bark was dark from rain. She imagined it giving one last sigh and dropping resignedly—relieved—into the sea.

Ginny followed the ghost tree down as a bitter wave crashed into the cliff wall. She nearly pitched forward at the dizzying sight and sudden jar. Once she righted herself, she peered down again. The craggy, sharp rocks reached up to her from the hissing, frothing foam. Another wave was swallowing the remains of the last one, preparing to punch the wall, perhaps bringing the little damaged sapling down. She glanced again at the shaking tree, wondering how it felt to dangle so perilously over something so unforgiving and hungry as the sea.

"You poor thing," she whispered, reaching out to touch it—

The next wave smashed into the rocks. The sapling shook. Ginny leaned back and looked up and out as the hissing retreat filled her ears. She shivered and rubbed her arms. The wind was warm, no longer moist, but she still felt cold fear creep up her spine. She could hear Nagini hissing in her ear . . .

"No," she croaked, covering her ears. "I don't want to hear it anymore!"

Sound disappeared. Ginny stared over the ocean, hearing only the sounds of her heartbeat reverberating through her body. Suddenly everything was distant and unreal except for two deep, steady rhythms. Her heart and the waves bruising the coastline. She saw the dark ocean, choppy and broody, give way on the horizon. The last vestiges of grey clouds were slowly drifting away. A blue ribbon of pure sky and deep waters split the two greys, steadily growing into what would eventually be another perfect Australian day.

Ginny closed her eyes for a moment, absorbing the steady thumps and crashes. She swayed a little, feeling drawn to both pulses. Just heart and ocean . . . nothing else . . .

"_You silly girl_," a cackling, sick hiss rose up in the deep, steady rhythms.

She opened her eyes and nearly doubled over in pain. Sound suddenly burst into her ears as her hands clutched her stomach. She breathed hard as she saw Riddle before her, a twisted form of his handsome youth and skeletal dark form. He sneered cruelly, surrounded by all the dark and cold and pain he'd filled her with. He laughed.

"_You are weak, Ginny Weasley. My little pet. Look what you've become. A sniveling little weasel."_ Slit red eyes and spidery hands reached for her, clasping around her, freezing her. She couldn't breathe. She stumbled backwards, trying to escape.

"_Why run, my little Ginny? You are mine."_

"I—" Ginny choked. The pain—his fingers were in her, squeezing, drawing blood—was unbearable. It consumed her. She tilted her head back, gasping, needing to breathe. How could he be here? How?

Riddle bore down on her, and she saw herself kneeling before him, bowing to his powers. She felt the cold cell, the sick pleasure in Nagini's hiss as she sank her teeth into Macnair. Harry hung over the boiling cauldron, his eyes begging to know why she'd betrayed him. But then she saw further . . . saw her standing out in the silent snow, saw Harry slowly turning away from her, defeated . . . then she was on the cliff, bowing before _him_.

He smiled triumphantly and squeezed tighter. _"You see, my Ginny?"_

"No," she gasped. "No!" Another wave crashed against the cliff, physical and hard. Her eyes saw the ocean, stung from the wind. _Let us have it, Ginny. _

The icy fingers tried to close in on her, suffocate her until the darkness consumed her—but Ginny tilted her head back and fought to take a deep, shuddering breath.

And then she screamed. Screamed for the ocean to take it—to take Riddle, her pain, her agony, all her lies and nightmares. Harry opened his eyes and jerked his arm away from Voldemort's lusty drink. His feet settled into the grass. He smiled. His eyes glittered brilliant and green. The Dark Lord vanished, scorching the air with his shriek. The icy meadow began to melt around her feet. Harry stood before her holding the diary and a torch. She took them both and the diary burned through her flesh. She could see the bones of her fingers as she shoved the diary into the flame. Pain lashed through her, burning up her arm, reaching her lungs. She screamed as Riddle tried to ravage her, take her through the flame with him. But she held fast, her skinless hand white in the flame. The diary curled and charred. Then it turned to dust and the flames flickered out.

"Sun's comin' out."

Harry tried not to give the storekeeper a dirty look. "Yes, that's nice, but can you answer the question?"

The man didn't move his eyes away from the breaking sky. His pale blue eyes squinted from under the brim of his beaten hat, and weathered lines creased his browned face showing through a bristly, peppery beard. "What's that?"

Harry held back a sigh. "I'm looking for someone. She's got long red hair and was wearing grey, I think. Have you seen her this morning?"

"Can't say I have. Why?"

"Nevermind. Thanks, anyway." Harry quickly turned away and stepped back into the main thoroughfare of The Rock's magical side. He looked up and down the street, wanting to shout from frustration. He knew he should be grateful for Ginny dashing off during business hours—less recreational traffic—but he had little gratitude at the moment. As of now he'd sprinted through both sides of The Rocks with no sign of Ginny. He kept going through the list of places she could have been, but he couldn't exactly search the whole of Sydney, and The Rocks had seemed like a good place to start.

"Damn it," he swore, raking his hair as two very blonde witches came out of Lady Sheila's Seasonal Wear. He'd just been in that store and had left very quickly at all the inquisitive female eyes. "Think, Potter," he muttered. "She couldn't have left the country. She didn't get any of her stuff. Unless she came back while I was here—nono, not going to think like that."

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose and peered down the street again. The two witches holding Lady Sheila bags were giving him dubious looks. He scowled at them and started off toward The Scorching Wand. He'd already asked Billy the barkeep, but he could use a quick drink while figuring out where to try next.

Just as Harry apologetically asked for some ice water, he caught flash of someone trying to slink off out of the corner of his eye. White-hot horror struck through him. He whirled around as he reached for his wand and felt a moment of grim satisfaction that he wasn't just being paranoid.

"Malfoy!" he shouted.

Draco Malfoy stumbled over a chair. Harry pounced, kicking a chair out of his way and shoving past a surprised patron to stand before the frantically straightening Malfoy. He felt his old school hate rear its ugly head and for a moment fantasized about hexing the evil little ferret on the spot.

"Potter," Malfoy said coldly. He looked twitchy and scared shitless, but Harry had to give him credit for trying to be cool and arrogant at wandpoint.

"Malfoy," Harry nodded darkly. His wand was just two inches from Malfoy's chest. He couldn't help but notice that there was something very off about the former Slytherin. Staring coldly at Draco, he suddenly realized what it was—lack of shiny, stylish robes and well styled hair. In fact, Draco looked decidedly un-Malfoy-like.

Minus the twitching and foolish acts of austerity.

Oh, and the seething hatred.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Harry hissed. He could feel the wary eyes of the patrons on them. He hoped none of them called for magical law enforcement. The last thing he needed were Aurors barging in.

"Leaving," said Malfoy. He arched an eyebrow. "Certainly it is not a crime, Potter." Draco said Harry's name loudly, making Harry cringe.

"Answer the bloody question."

Malfoy smiled coolly and tossed lank hair away from his eyes. "I just did."

Harry wanted to hex him good. Gritting his teeth, he said, "What are you doing in Australia, you worthless git? Spying on me?" He pressed the tip of his wand into Malfoy's chest.

Draco put his palm between the wand and his heart. He snorted. "Please, Potter. Like I'd waste my time trailing after _you_. You're nothing but a washed up _hero_. Shouldn't I be asking _you_ what you're doing in this desolate place? I'd think the great Harry Potter would be basking in the fame and making lots of ugly babies and getting fat and lazy under all that worship."

"Shut up," Harry growled as Malfoy's voice grew louder. People were staring and murmuring. "It's none of your business what I'm doing here."

Malfoy smirked. "And neither is yours."

Harry just glared. The reasonable part of him said he should just drop this and leave before things got ugly. This wasn't school anymore. He couldn't duel with Draco, no matter how much the wanker pissed him off. And it wouldn't be fair anyway—Harry knew he could take Draco in a heartbeat. But that didn't mean he should. And, anyway, the Aurors would definitely get him then, and he had more important things to be doing right now.

"Fine," said Harry bitterly. He lowered his wand but kept his arm tense. Malfoy was a cheater.

Malfoy grinned wickedly. "That's better, Potter. Control that temper. Wouldn't want to get in trouble, would you? Especially with the Weaselette here—"

Harry's wand nearly came up again. "You know she's here? What? Have you been stalking her—you _have_ been stalking me, haven't you!"

Chuckling gleefully, Draco raised his eyebrows. "Ah, so the little bird didn't tell you I was here? Oh, that _is_ good."

"What do you mean?" Harry said guardedly. Ginny couldn't have known Malfoy was here. She would have told him.

"Let's just say we had a little . . . _interlude_ in the alley—"

Something very foul and angry flew out of Harry's mouth. He hadn't even realized he was about to throw his fist into Malfoy's insinuating face until a heavy, strong hand clasped onto it.

"Potter," Billy said sternly in his ear. Harry hadn't even realized the burly man was there. "How about that ice water?"

Something cool and wet fitted into his hand, instantly jerking Harry back into a less violent realm. He stared angrily at Malfoy as he gripped the glass in his hand. Malfoy stood two paces back, looking as if he'd just recovered from wetting himself. Harry took a slow, careful drink. All eyes were on him and Billy had a firm, warning grip on his shoulder. Heat crept up his neck. He'd lost control. He knew better than this. Malfoy just wanted him to do something stupid.

When Harry felt like he could speak without throwing a curse, he said, "What do you know of Ginny?"

Again Draco looked sickeningly gleeful. "She's a mess, Potter. A bit torn up about betraying you and all to the Dark Lord. Did she tell you about that? Spilled her little heart out to me, she did. Of course, _I_ was the one who saved her."

Harry really wished he could fly at Draco and pummel that twitchy little face with his fists. _Harry_ should have been the one to save her. He put her there in the first place. She'd been tortured into betraying him—_she _called it betrayal, Harry wasn't so sure. He hadn't had time to think about it really. And he couldn't right now. All he could focus on was the fact Ginny had told Draco before him, that Draco had a part in all of this.

Harry wanted to be sick.

"Oh, I like that look, Potter," said Draco. He smiled cruelly. "If only I'd had a camera. Your face—just like that—will keep me warm on cold nights."

"You're sick."

Malfoy just smiled.

Harry knew he wasn't going to get anywhere. In any case, he didn't think even Billy could hold him back long. With one last glare, he said, "I never want to see your face again, Malfoy," and then Disapparated.

By now only weak, scattered clouds cast shadows over Ginny as she leaned, exhausted, against the sheltering boulder. Salty ocean air cleansed her face and filled her lungs. Her throat hurt and her eyes stung and her body trembled with weariness, but she felt . . . better. Not purified and renewed, but definitely like someone had taken scrubbing bubbles to her. She'd screamed until she lost her voice and her lungs burned out. She didn't know if it had done anything other than cause a terrible ache in her throat, but it had felt like she'd forced something out of her. Riddle, perhaps.

Or maybe she'd just needed to let go. If even for a moment.

And now she could feel. The pain seemed a bit numb. A bit fuzzy like when her foot fell asleep, just before it started prickling. She could think and see and feel. It wasn't so dark or so much like the end of the world.

She gazed out at the ocean, blue again. She smiled a little. Her first glimpse of Australia had been like this. She knew this might be her last. But that was okay. She could deal with it.

Finally, her eyes closed and her mind gave in to a dreamless, exhausted sleep.

She could feel the sun warm on her skin. It felt soothing and scratchy at once. The salty breeze stung, drying her face and hands. Ginny stirred, feeling sore and exhausted and very shaky. Dizzy. The boulder ground into her back and the world seemed to tilt as she tried to open her eyes. She could hear voices, sense shifting movement, just out of her reach. It all seemed clouded, felt like cotton. She could choke on it . . .

"Ginny . . . come on, wake up . . ."

Someone was touching her face. She flinched. She tried to tell whoever it was to stop, it hurt, but her throat was closed and her tongue heavy.

" . . . water . . ."

Suddenly something cool and wet filled her mouth. Ginny's eyes flew open as she choked and sputtered. Bright light and colors danced across her vision and she quickly ducked her head and shut her eyes. After a moment, she squinted and saw her skirt bunched around her and her coppery locks curtaining the rest of the world.

"Ginny?" a gentle, worried voice said just behind the curtain. A hand was tentatively touching her shoulder. Anchoring. Softer than the rock bracing her back.

She moaned weakly and slowly lifted her head. Blinking in the bright sunlight, she saw many faces under colorful hats. Cameras—there were lots of cameras. And waterbottles.

"Try the water again, dear," a fifty-some year old woman said to Ginny's right. "She looks rather thirsty. And confused. Poor thing. You sure you know her?"

"Yes," the voice belonging to the hand said. "Definitely."

Ginny blinked up at the woman, taking in the straw hat she held down on her head, the navy-and-white striped shirt fluttering in the breeze, her white shorts over full hips and belly. Her large sunglasses hid her eyes, but Ginny imagined them to be crystal blue and crinkled at the corners. She had a strange urge to the hug the woman.

"Ginny." The hand squeezed her shoulder. "You need to drink some water."

Her head swam as she tried to turn it towards his voice. She let it fall back against the rock and winced, whimpering, at the sudden pain.

"Watch her head—do you want me to do this, young man?"

"Er—no. I'm fine. Um, but thank you for the water."

"Julie, we've got to go. We can't miss the bus."

"We can't _leave_ her here."

"She's got her friend—Harold or whatever—"

"Harry, I think he said—"

"Whatever. Anyway, how do we know he's not some sort of—"

"Oh now, really, Jennifer! How many criminals go around looking panicked and say 'oh my God Ginny' when they come upon a hapless girl? Besides, he looks just like my son, Benny, and he loves little puppies!"

Their arguing washed over her. Ginny felt herself start to slip down as the world continued to tilt and sway. A hand slipped under her head and tilted her up, and she felt more water pour down her throat. She choked again, but this time reached for the waterbottle when it was pulled away. She drank in loud gulps that hurt her throat and punched her stomach. Her head throbbed, but she began to feel less dizzy. The world came into sharper and less painful focus.

When she drained the bottle, she looked up at the gawking women. Then she turned slowly to Harry. Taking in his dark, worried eyes and pinched face, she felt as if her throat hadn't absorbed any water. Perhaps she couldn't take whatever he dished out, perhaps she couldn't handle rejection or forgiveness or whatever was coming next . . .

"Harry," she whispered, her voice cracked.

Relief flooded his face, making him look seventeen again. His hand tightened on her shoulder and for a second she thought he'd leap on her. But then his eyes flicked toward the flock of tourist women.

Ginny followed his gaze. They looked back at her earnestly. She tried to smile, but her lips cracked painfully. She licked them and tasted blood.

"I'm fine," she said hoarsely. "Really. Thank you."

"Are you sure, dear?" the one Ginny thought to be Julie said.

Ginny nodded. The motion made her a little queasy.

"Well, have another water, anyway. We've got plenty more on the bus."

Ginny smiled weakly, painfully. "Thanks." She drank thirstily. By the time she was done, the women had bid their farewell after Harry assured them he'd get her home safely. When the bottle was empty and her gut couldn't take anymore, she finally looked at Harry again. His hand hadn't moved from her shoulder.

"What happened?" she asked softly, not quite meeting his eyes.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," said Harry. He was crouched down by her. Ginny was sure his ankles were killing him.

She rolled the empty plastic bottle between her hands and shook her head. "Well. I broke down." Shrugging helplessly, she stared at one of his bent knees. "You saw that."

Harry sighed and shifted until he was sitting against the boulder, his shoulder nearly touching hers. "Yeah. But I mean here."

Ginny closed her eyes for a moment. She felt so tired . . . All she wanted to do was curl up somewhere warm and soft and go to sleep for a very long time. But she couldn't. Harry was here and she owed him—owed herself—to have it out. To settle this . . . thing between them.

She opened her eyes and gazed out at the white breaks over the deep blue water. "I thought I could take you. You hating me or something like that. But then I couldn't. So I fled." She went to rub at her scratchy eyes but hissed in pain as fire exploded from her eyelids.

"What the—"

"You're burned," said Harry. His fingers gently clasped her wrists and pulled them away from her face. "It's after four."

"Oh, Merlin . . ." Ginny felt her face redden—more than it probably already was. She'd been here for hours . . .

"It's okay, I think Renee's got a potion," Harry said quickly. "But we should get you in some shade soon. You're rather red."

Ginny nodded but couldn't move. Hanging her head, she stared at her hands clutching her skirt. Immense shame washed over her, yet it felt rather sluggish. She tried to see herself from Harry's eyes as she completely lost control and screamed her betrayal in the rain. And then he found her against this rock, burned and surrounded by a flock of well-intentioned tourists. What could he possibly think of her now?

She lifted her head and stared at Harry. "Harry?" He looked at her openly, and she realized how weary he was. "What . . . what do you think of me? Of this? I mean of everything I said back at the flat? About," she swallowed, "about betraying you?"

Harry's gaze dropped to the grass for a moment, then looked at her again, his eyes dark and serious. "You scared me."

Ginny swallowed again. "Scared you?"

"Well, you were very scary and then the storm just made it even worse . . ." Harry shrugged a little sheepishly but didn't look any less serious. "You've been scaring me for awhile now."

"Oh." Ginny turned her head away, feeling heat rise up her neck and sting her cheeks even more. She wanted to ask how long, but she couldn't bring herself to. _I'll only feel worse_, she thought, tucking her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. _I'm so tired of feeling like this._

"Hey." Harry gingerly touched his fingertips to the top of her hands. His touch burned her sun-tender skin, but she relished the pain for a brief moment. Then she shrunk away from it, feeling small and foolish. Must she always want pain? This sunburn felt too much like her scalding baths.

"Bloody—this hurts," she gasped.

"What does?" Harry asked, drawing his hand away.

Ginny shook her head and cast around for shade. The two small, leaning trees behind the boulder cast thin shadows over the path. They wouldn't do. Harry must have realized what she was looking for, because he said, "Behind the boulder, I think."

She nodded and tried to stand. The world shifted uneasily and her head spun. Harry reached out to steady her, and Ginny let him. For a moment his body blocked the blazing afternoon sun and relief cooled her skin. But then she was looking up at Harry, who looked so confused, weary, and anxious, that she immediately wanted to jump back into the searing light.

_No_, she told herself sternly. Steadying herself against the boulder, and reluctantly with Harry's help, she moved around the boulder until they were in its shadow. Then, slowly, she sank back to the ground and wished she could bury her face in her knees. Instead, she settled for staring down at the grass. Harry settled in front of her, and she was a bit relieved by this. Maybe he would take the lead.

Several minutes passed and Ginny began to worry she'd have to say something. What more could she say? But then, thankfully, Harry cleared his throat and shifted and, finally, spoke.

"I'm not sure what's going on with you, Ginny," he said quietly, "but I think I kind of get it. You think you betrayed me, so you hate yourself."

Ginny clutched her fists. "I don't _think_ I betrayed you—I _did_!" she hissed.

Harry raised his eyebrows, and Ginny thought he looked inappropriately smug. "Then why am I here?"

She shrank back and frowned at the question. For some reason, it struck her as a trick. "Which 'here,' precisely? Alive or in this very spot?"

Harry grinned wryly. "Why not both?"

"Did you _mean_ both?"

Harry shrugged enigmatically and leaned back on his hands, waiting. Ginny, despite her miserable state, wanted to cuff him upside the head. "Fine," she muttered. "You're alive because Malfoy had a grudge against his father and pulled me out before I could, in actual verbs, betray you.

"And as for this moment," Ginny said, looking away, "I frankly don't know."

Harry leaned forward. "You don't?"

She couldn't quite look at him.

Harry sighed. "Do you really think that badly of me?"

"What?" Ginny stared at him, completely thrown. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, you seem to think I should hate you or something," said Harry. He looked peevish. "You instantly think I'll turn my back on you for something that's not your fault."

"But it _was_—" Ginny started to protest, but Harry lunged forward and clamped a hand over her mouth. She whimpered in pain as her burned lips and skin stung.

"Sorry," Harry muttered, dropping his hand. He ducked his head, obviously embarrassed by his sudden action. He pushed irritably at his fringe and adjusted his glasses before looking at her. The line of his jaw was set. "You didn't betray me, Ginny," he said firmly. "You were _tortured_—"

She winced at the pain on his face and scratching his voice. "So? I gave in. _Ron_ wouldn't have given in. Admit it. Ron would have gladly died for you."

Behind his glasses, Harry's face closed and the shade seemed to fill every hollow. Ginny shivered but forced herself to look at him. Bitterness swelled inside her. Now they both knew she wasn't as brave as everyone had thought.

"What if Ron _had_ betrayed you, Harry?" she demanded, her voice tight. "Would you forgive him?"

Harry swallowed noticeably and looked away. His lips were pressed thin and hard, and she knew she'd unsettled him deeply. "No," he bit out. Taking a deep breath, he plunged on before she could say anything else. "But it's not how you think. Ron would never betray me. He's not like Pettigrew." Quiet, barely contained anger edged his voice, and Ginny pressed her back against the stone. "If Voldemort tortured Ron or Hermione until they were near dead, like he did to you, and something slipped or they surrendered, I can't blame them."

"Do you honestly think either of them would do that?" She couldn't let him off that easy—couldn't let herself off that easy. If he forgave her so easily, it would make these past two years of grieving and wallowing even more ridiculous and shallow and pathetic. And another part of her began to feel righteously bitter at the very idea of him letting her off easier than the Ron or Hermione.

"No," Harry sighed, his anger dissipating. "I don't. And I _never_ want to think of it again."

"I thought as much." Ginny clenched her fists, feeling her ragged nails dig into her skin. She had no right to be angry, really. After all, she'd known for two years how weak she truly was, but somehow it felt worse to think that Harry might have always known, and _that_ was why he didn't seem too beat-up about her surrendering to Voldemort.

"So," she said, unable to conceal her bitterness, "why _me_, Harry? Why am I different? How can you forgive _me_?"

She stared at him determinedly. Harry tilted his head back toward the sky, stalling. After a moment he dropped his chin and gazed at the ground between them. Then he moved so he was sitting beside her and folded his hands in his lap.

"What do you want me to say, Ginny?" Harry sounded as tired as she felt. When she couldn't answer, he moved so he could see her face. "Look," he said, "it seems to me you want me to say you're weak or pathetic or something stupid like that. You're not, all right?" The shade and furrow of his brow seemed to darken his eyes nearly back. His face was so close she could see the slight bump from a Quidditch accident on his otherwise straight nose. "You really want to know why it's not earth shattering that Voldemort broke you?" he demanded.

Ginny swallowed and looked down. She could practically feel the anger simmering in him.

"He had you, Ginny," Harry growled. "He's had you longest after me. Voldemort never had Ron or Hermione like that. And you can think that this means you're weak—but you're not. Didn't you hear Dumbledore? Riddle hoodwinked powerful wizards before he ever got to you. Bloody hell—_I _chatted the bastard up! I even believed him when he said it was all Hagrid's doing. So, really, by your way of thinking, I betrayed Hagrid right there.

"But that's not the point," he said, leaning a bit more forward. "Ginny, you have to fight harder with Voldemort. It's amazing you didn't surrender the moment he got you!"

"But the point is that I _did_ surrender!" Ginny cried, forcing Harry back a few inches. "I surrendered. I wanted the pain to end and I didn't care about anything else!"

Harry gave her a dark look. "You're not the only one who's wanted to die."

Air left her lungs. She stared at Harry, wanting desperately to touch him and hide at the same time. "Harry," she croaked—

Harry shook his head. "Forget I said that." His voice was tight, his eyes were cast a little to her right. "Look, I just—" he paused again, pained. Harry looked determinedly at her and reached for her hand. Ginny started to pull away, but he held fast. "Ginny—did it ever occur to you that whatever you're doing to yourself is letting him win?"

"Yes," she admitted. Shame rose up and her vision began to blur.

"Do you _want_ to let him win?" Harry asked. She could feel him turn her hand palm up and her fingers curled as his fingertips brushed over the crescent marks from her nails. His thumb grazed over her wrist.

"No," she whispered. Hesitantly, Ginny met Harry's gaze. "That's the thing. I _want_ to be fine and be brave and smite him and all of that, but I haven't been able to. And then I think I shouldn't even bother, because it's all futile anyway and I feel like a liar." She snorted bitterly. "And to make things even more confusing, I come up here to have my last look at Australia before you send me off, and I guess I decided I wasn't going to let him have me anymore. I was so damn brave I screamed till I could taste blood.

"But then here I am," Ginny sighed, taking her hand away from Harry. "Burned and pathetic and feeling every bit as horrible as I did this morning."

The corners of Harry's mouth twitched. His hand made an odd gesture as if to touch her cheek, but then sort of faltered, barely brushing her hair as he dropped it. He settled back beside her, his arm grazing hers. She had no doubt it was intentional and felt both warmed and uneasy by this. Somewhere between Hogwarts and now, Harry had gotten enough confidence to give some rather clear signals. It frightened her.

"Sorry for the speech," Harry said softly. "I think some of Hermione rubbed off."

She rested her head against the cool side of the boulder and rolled it a little to look at Harry's profile. Hearing a little sheepishness in his voice eased her. "I need it," Ginny admitted quietly.

Harry looked at her. "Really? Usually speeches just piss me off."

Ginny grinned a little. "Even my Quidditch one?"

Harry grinned widely at that and some of the tension rolled off his shoulders. "No, that was a good one. Your face got all red—"

She nudged him. "Be nice."

Harry just smiled and slid his fingers through hers. Then he glanced away, color darkening his cheeks. Ginny held very still, her heart unsteady. Could she actually let him do this? Hand-holding seemed enormous, implicating more than she could comfortably take right now. Yet part of her was screaming to just get over it and follow whatever lead Harry gave her. She _wanted_ to be over this, _wanted_ Harry to act on whatever had compelled him to kiss her on Halloween. She didn't care if she needed it or not—it was about want.

_But can I let myself?_

Closing her eyes, Ginny tentatively leaned against Harry, letting her head come to rest against his shoulder. The pressure hurt her cheek, but she ignored it. Harry held very still for a moment, and then relaxed. His hand squeezed hers and then she felt his fingertips gingerly brush hair away from her face. She relished this. _I can do this, _she thought slowly. _I can win._

"Harry?" said Ginny softly.

"Hmm?"

"Can you help me?"

She could almost feel him smile amusedly.

"Help you do what?"

Ginny opened her eyes and lifted her head to look at him. His eyes were very green, as always, and very close. She studied his face and her gaze fell to his mouth, which was very relaxed and slightly quirked. Her heart fluttered as she remembered how warm and soft his lips had felt . . .

"Well," she said, pulling back slightly. She sounded a little breathless. "I guess just getting back to the flat for starters. If you _want_ me to—"

"Damn straight," Harry said quickly.

"Good." Relief washed over her. With came more exhaustion, if that were even possible. She needed a long nap and Renee's potion and some chocolate, and then maybe she could sort this terribly long day out. She mumbled as much to Harry as her eyes drooped a little.

"Of course," said Harry. "When you're all rested up and less crispy, you'll have to come cheer us on at the tournament." He gave her a mock serious look. "You _must_ stay for Quidditch."

Ginny laughed. It felt good. But then she sobered quickly. Harry looked so eager and happy suddenly. "Harry," she said quietly. "I can't promise I'm going to be all right. It's bad enough that I still feel like I betrayed you, but then the way I've acted since—"

"Do you even remember how _I_ acted all these years?" Harry demanded, wide-eyed. Serious, he dropped his chin a little. "I've been to the bottom, Ginny. I know what it's like. Believe me."

"I do."

"Good." Harry gazed at her, then leaned forward a few inches and kissed her forehead. His lips stung and soothed at once. When he pulled back, she couldn't help but look at his mouth again, wanting. She wondered if he would—she hoped—

But Harry didn't. Ginny felt both relieved and disappointed as he stood up, still holding her hand. She felt like she'd explode if he kissed her the way he had on Halloween. It was just too much to take all at once. Yet she felt a little lost that he was waiting for _her_ to make the move.

Sighing inwardly, she climbed shakily to her feet. The dehydration and stress left her weak and trembling; she leaned against Harry for support.

"We'll get a taxi," said Harry quietly.

"Fine. I just need a moment." Ginny breathed deeply, gathering her strength for more than just the journey down to the beach. She looked around Harry and gazed at the ocean. It was deep blue, solid and alive. As she realized this wasn't her last look at it, a small smile stretched her lips and she nodded to Harry.

"I'm ready."

EPILOGUE

Sand sifted down between her toes, filling the dark crevices with tiny particles. A chipped, bleached shell dipped down onto her big toe, and Ginny paused a moment from her heavily scrawled notebook to wiggle the small shell. The shell-hat tipped her salutations, and she nodded back. It bade her thanks and then toppled over onto the top of her freckled foot.

She reached down and picked it up. The notebook pages fanned out, cackling madly in the wind. Ignoring it, she examined the tiny shell, rubbing her thumb over the smooth inside. It flashed, winking. Ginny smiled and pocketed it in her sand-dusted satchel. The afternoon sun flashed over her watch.

She glanced at it and sighed regretfully. She only had half an hour before she needed to Apparate back to the flat and grab her bags.

Ginny gazed wistfully out at the Australian waters, thinking. The days were starting to get cooler, now that it was March and heading towards the winter months of more normal temperatures (for England's summer, anyway). The air felt more like home.

Home. Excitement and terror filled her. She couldn't wait to see her family and friends, but she worried about what sort of mess she'd left behind. Her mother still seemed insulted that Ginny had bolted, but that was the least of her worries. Ginny knew Ron, Hermione, Alyson, and Joe would be waiting for her at the station. They'd be studying her as well as welcoming her, but it was things with Dean that made Ginny want to stay in Australia the most. How could she possibly make amends?

Ginny chewed on the end of her pen. The last couple of months had been rough but also very good. She felt a giddy sort of thrill in her stomach. Things had started out slow after the day of her confession. She'd been almost extra paranoid of Harry's presence, but once she'd figured out he was reluctantly waiting for her to decide, they fell into a sort of routine. Ginny had realized the moment they'd returned, she couldn't bear to remain in the closet, and so she'd taken Renee up on her offer to share the older girl's room. But usually she fell asleep on the couch when watching some late-night TV. Harry sometimes stayed with her, but she usually sent him off if she could.

Then she had a particularly nasty nightmare. Up until then, Ginny had kept a check on how far she let Harry get with affectionate expression. Just a little every now and then, when not even her issues could resist the urge . . . But that night she broke her own barrier, crept into Harry's room, and soaked in whatever comfort she could. Of course, Renee had whooped and hollered embarrassingly, taking things well out of hand. Not that Ginny could claim Harry's comforting had been platonic.

At least that night had made things easier . . . and yet much harder. Ginny and Harry couldn't exactly date like normal couples with their living situation, and on Ginny's "good days," she sometimes felt overwhelmed with the urge to make up for wasted times. Her bad days often meant long walks by herself.

Now that she wasn't so absorbed in her own misery, she noticed Harry's moods more. Ginny hated to admit that those could be some of the _best_ days. Harry seemed to think physical distraction was a very good idea, and—Ginny tried not to shiver gleefully—it made things very interesting.

But now they wouldn't be living together. Once Molly Weasley knew her daughter and Harry were truly more than friends, she would raise hell about them living together. Ron had written Harry and Ginny, telling them he and Hermione were still technically living in separate apartments to keep Molly off their backs about a wedding date. _"Mum just doesn't get how things can be done now."_

But Ginny and Harry had decided that aside from not wanting the Wrath of Molly upon them, living separately could be a good thing. They could try it at least. And, anyway, Ron really needed his rent to get some use, and since Harry was trying out for Quidditch (he was going for Puddlemere first and then taking Ron's nagging for the Cannons if he didn't get in), a temporary place seemed like a good idea. Alyson had already accepted Ginny's begging for a room.

_And if we decide we'd much rather toss all pretense aside, then yay for that_, Ginny thought as she brushed some chin-length locks away from her face. She'd given in to Renee's pleads to "re-do" her hair. Although still long, Renee had cut off several inches and then layered it, starting with some chin-length locks. Ginny rather liked it, though the layers were more difficult to pull back.

She was really going to miss Renee. The vivacious Australian had been so nurturing in her bohemian ways. Once Ginny finally let on that she wrote little "dabs of stuff here and there," Renee had insisted that Ginny help her with music reviews. Ginny even got her name attached to the articles, right alongside Renee. It was fun. She had a purpose and even went out to performances when the Quidditch tournament prevented Renee from catching a show. (The Dingoes finished third, though there was speculation they might have gone top if not for Hugo's Bludger injury and the inexperience of his replacement).

Ginny could tell Renee was trying to stay cheerful about her and Harry leaving today, although the Australian did point out that Harry had stayed longer than anyone else. They'd both invited her to come to England anytime, and Renee made them promise they would return to Sydney soon. Ginny had no doubt she would; she didn't want to leave, really. But she needed to.

Shaking herself out of her thoughts, Ginny glanced down at her journal. The pages were blank; the filled, scribbled, scratched sheets had been tossed aside by the wind while her mind drifted. She lightly ran the tip of her pen down the margin. Something was blooming in her mind . . . she hoped it would be good.

THE END

A/N: If you want Harry and Ginny to go off and make sweet, sweet love and many, many babies, you'll just have to imagine that in your head. I'm not writing it. Sorry, there is no sequel. Nadda. I DO have some specific scenes in my head that would have taken place between the end scene and the epilogue, but they're just not coming out. No point.

On a much more grateful note: Thanks to all of you who reviewed, and even those of you who did not but read the story, anyway.  Also, Cliodne/Camille – you rock! Shriya, you're also awesome for the soundtrack. Delani, Delyah, emmapottermoon, MangyKeazle – there's a whole lot of you who reviewed constantly or would hit something spot on, so thanks to you observant reviewers! I can't list everybody.

Apologies: My bad with the cliffhanger. I couldn't resist it. My beta actually spotted some "foreshadowing" early on. She thought the cliff and Harry imagining Ginny taking flight off the balcony were pointing to something . . . but they weren't. But it made me feel cleverer than I actually am, and I also wanted to play on that, since she spotted it. So I did. And it's a CLIFF. Best to let you HANG there. MWHAHAHAHA!!! Okay, I'll stop with the badness now.

I don't know if I'll write any other fics after this. I have college, editing for the school's lit mag, and I'm working on some original stuff. Plus, writing Captive and Ambivalence was emotionally exhausting. I also don't think fanfic is able to help my writing anymore, and I'm just too busy . . . so, I'm sorry if anyone is harboring any sort of hope for a potential sequel or any other fic by me.

Oh, and it's been great.  And this long A/N feels way too self-important. I shall stop.


End file.
